


How Stiles gets cockblocked by the universe

by peet4paint



Series: the road to knotting [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crack, Embarrassment, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Oblivious, Possessive Behavior, Remix, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-19
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-29 18:59:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peet4paint/pseuds/peet4paint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a night of unexpected nuzzling, Stiles searches high and low to find out just what's up with Derek Hale (aka, the story of how Stiles Stilinski gets cockblocked by the universe).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is what happens when I attempt to write a PWP for river. It comes out as... crack.
> 
> Huge thanks to river (anon-fangirl) for the beta! You saved this in the most necessary way.
> 
> Uh, I'm not sure if this is necessary, but warning for insensitivity to penis size. Also, Derek being a jealous violent man.

It’s dark out. Of course it’s dark out, since it’s actually not the full moon, what with it being the _new_ moon.

Stiles feels restless, body tense for some reason he can’t quite figure out. It’s not a good feeling.

There’s a noise at his window, a noise that’s definitely not the wind. He thinks it’s Scott at first. He figures Allison kicked him out early, or maybe it was Allison’s dad. But then, somehow, Stiles knows that’s not the case, even though it’s probably the most likely.

It’s Derek.

Of course it’s Derek.

Who else would be crazy enough to crawl in someone’s window instead of just walking in the front door like a normal person? (Other than Stiles himself. But that doesn’t count. At all.)

The window opens and Derek climbs in and it’s not awkward and stumbling like the times Stiles tried to slip in unnoticed past curfew. (Tried being the operative word. Somehow his dad always caught him. It was like he knew him or something.) Derek Hale doesn’t have an awkward bone in his body. Derek Hale is full of, like, grace and poise and other old-people things.

“Hey,” Stiles says, body practically shivering with nervous energy, “are you here to ravish me?”

Derek just looks at him for a second, then a second more. Then he’s finally talking. “Yes.”

He’s not exactly a great talker, Derek.

Suddenly Stiles realizes what Derek actually said. “Wait, what? Yes? Are you, like, making a joke or something?”

Derek just raises an eyebrow.

Stiles doesn’t trust this. He doesn’t trust this series of events. Because, seriously, let’s face it. If Derek Hale had, like, actually decided to ravish someone, wouldn’t that someone be along the lines of Lydia? Or, hey, if his tastes went that way, Jackson? There is no way Derek wants to ravish Stiles. “There’s no way you want to ravish me,” he says.

Derek raises his other eyebrow, then he lets his gaze trace Stiles’ body, starting at his feet of all places (the big freak) and working its way up. By the time it gets to mid-thigh, Stiles is blushing hard enough that people can probably see it from space.

“Derek,” Stiles says. Because, no. No way. No way is Derek Hale— _Derek freaking Hale_ —looking at him like he’s the last steak in Beacon Hills. Like, maybe, before the whole werewolf thing, he could’ve gotten Scott to look at him like that. If he, you know, suddenly gained boobs and lost his dick. But seriously? Derek Hale? No way.

He laughs, stilted, says, “C’mon man. Joke’s over. Enough taunting the human.”

Derek growls. He actually, literally, honest-to-god growls.

Stiles feels goose bumps break out all over his body. “Um…”

“Decide.” Derek doesn’t even sound human. Which, huh, he’s not. Right. “Decide right now, Stiles. I’m not stopping once I’ve started.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. He’s about to continue, ask Derek what the hell he’s talking about or maybe make a joke or two, but then, suddenly, Derek’s _on_ him, body braced over him, just breathing, breathing, like he ran a marathon.

Derek lowers his head, and Stiles has half a second to think, _Oh my god, I’m gonna make out with Derek Hale,_ when Derek bypasses his mouth entirely and attaches himself to Stiles’ neck instead. He breathes in and out and in and out and Stiles can’t help but giggle. “Tickles,” he says, squirming on the bed.

Then the whole breathing thing is replaced by a _licking_ thing and the ticklish thing turns into—well, Stiles is squirming in a whole new way. “Um,” Stiles says, face heating.

Tongue is replaced by lips. Lips sucking, and lips marking, and lips kissing. And Stiles had been holding out up ‘til then. Really. He’d been doing a fricking _incredible_ job, thank you very much. But when the whole sucking-marking-kissing thing happens, Stiles can’t exactly be blamed for going hard enough to cut through something.

Stiles goes still, like corpse-still. He spends a second hoping Derek won’t notice, but, right, the whole sniffing thing. _That’s_ not gonna happen. “Sorry,” he says, practically choking on his own tongue.

Derek pushes himself up, up, up and looks down at Stiles, confusion covering his face. He stares at Stiles, just stares at him, the big freak, and then he does that freaky sniffing thing and suddenly seems to get it. He backs up, then backs up even farther, then he’s actually leaving the bed.

He shakes his head, looks at Stiles, then shakes his head again. “I—“ he starts, then he must decide that words are, like, too good for him or something because he’s not just leaving the bed now, he’s leaving Stiles’ room.

As the window closes, Stiles swears he hears, “sorry.”

Derek didn’t apologize. He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. Stiles _knows_ he didn’t… Just…

His phone buzzes next to his bed.

He reaches out for it absentmindedly, not even checking who the message is from before he’s opening it.

It’s from Scott, of course.

“Dude. DH in heet. B crfl.”

Stiles writes back, “You couldn’t have told me about this ten minutes ago?”

He doesn’t get a response.

*

“Stiles,” Scott says, poking him in the back with a pencil.

“Busy,” Stiles says. And he is busy, actually taking his stupid physics test unlike _some_ people who will remain nameless, thank you very much. And, right on cue—

“Stiles,” Scott says _again_ poking him in the back with a pencil _again_.

“Oh my god, what!” Stiles says, spinning around to look at Scott.

But Scott isn’t looking back at Stiles. Scott is looking at the door.

Stiles turns, dread creeping up the back of his spine.

Derek is standing there. Stupid Derek Hale is just standing in the door of Stiles’ physics class like no one even remembers the whole ‘being wanted for multiple murders’ thing.

And that’s not even the disturbing part. The disturbing part is, he’s staring at Stiles.

“Oh, come on! You have to be kidding me,” Stiles says, turning back to Scott.

Scott makes his confused ‘I don’t understand the words you are saying’ face and Stiles is totally gonna call him on that, but before he can there’s a loud creak from the front of the room.

“Mr. Stilinski.” That sounds—alarmingly like Mr. Harris. Stiles gulps and turns back to the front of the room. “Is there a reason,” Mr. Harris says in his calm voice, his stupid utterly calm voice, “why you feel the need to disturb not only Mr. McCall, but the rest of the class as well during the most important test of your delinquent young lives?”

Stiles mouth works uselessly for a few minutes. Then he’s finding words. “Well, you know, I always say conversation is highly underrated.” Useless words, but—

“Well, since you are so terribly fond of conversation, you and I will be having one later tonight. During detention.” Mr. Harris turns back to his stupid old-person magazine and completely ignores Stiles’ moan of outrage.

Then Scott’s poking him in the back again, and no, Stiles did not forget that Scott was complicit in this whole mess. In fact, he’ll be taking that up with Mr. Harris later.

But then Stiles remembers _how_ Scott was complicit in this whole mess and turns to the door, ready to, like, scream or something. They would totally put Derek in jail for the creepy staring thing. At least, Stiles is pretty sure they would, anyway.

Only no one’s there. Derek’s not there, it’s like no one ever was there.

Stiles opens his mouth to ask Scott about how, _how_ , Derek could possibly have escaped without him even noticing, but Mr. Harris must notice his mouth open. “ _Mr._ Stilinski.”

Stiles cringes and turns back to his test. Only, he can’t concentrate at all anymore. Stupid Scott, distracting him. And _stupid_ Derek Hale being a huge creepy creeper.

*

“You know what it means, right?” Jackson says, setting his tray down with a _thunk_. They’re the only ones at the table so far. Probably because of the creepy threesome thing going on between Scott and Allison and Lydia that Stiles isn’t supposed to know about. (Like Stiles couldn’t tell. The looks the three of them are sharing are downright pornographic. Like porn.)

Stiles picks up his spoon and a greenish muck that’s supposed to be chicken noodle soup drips off it. “I’m thinking bad chicken, but it could just be that they’re trying to pass off smashed peas as soup again.”

Jackson gives him one of those looks. One of those looks that says, ‘I’m Jackson. I’m so much better than you are, I’ll eat you for _breakfast_.’ Stiles isn’t terribly fond of those looks.

“No, dumbass. The heat. Derek being in heat. You know what that means, or do you not understand basic anatomy?” Jackson sort of squints at him, head tilting the same direction as his hair.

God, Jackson’s hair is stupid.

“No clue,” Stiles says, skipping the pea soup stuff and moving right on to the good stuff—fries. “Unlike you, four-legged mammals aren’t a part of my family tree.”

Jackson leans in, voice going low. “It means he’s gonna have sex with everyone he sees. Messy, dirty, no-strings-attached sex where he just totally _uses_ everyone he sees. And, since he saw you first, he’s using you first.”

Stiles just _stares_ at Jackson for a second, mouth full of fries. Then he chews and swallows, chews and swallows. “Wait,” he says. “Wait. You mean, Derek’s going to use me for his, like, sexual pleasure?”

“Yep,” Jackson says, smirk firmly in place.

“And, we’re talking like actual, naked, sweaty, orgasm-inducing sex?” Stiles says.

“Yes, Stiles. Sex,” Jackson says, voice going exasperated.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says.

Jackson’s smirk grows.

“Oh my god.” Stiles fistpumps. “I’m going to have sex! I’m finally going to have sex!”

Jackson groans and covers his eyes. “This wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.”

“If he likes it, is he gonna come back for more? Is there gonna be, like, points? For good blowjobs?” Stiles stops, worried. “Oh my god, I don’t know how to give blowjobs.”

Jackson groans harder. He sounds a little like a dying animal.

Stiles pats him on the back. “You are so no longer my least favorite person. Thanks man.”

Stiles is pretty sure he hears Jackson sob. Weirdo.

*

Stiles scouts the room. He very carefully and suavely makes his move, slipping into the desk like it’s perfectly normal for him to sit on the other side of the room from Scott.

He turns to Danny and smiles.

Danny, for some reason, looks a weird mixture of uncomfortable and nervous.

“Danny?” Stiles says. “Can I ask you a question?”

“No,” Danny says, turning away from Stiles.

“Like that’s gonna stop me,” Stiles says, settling back in his chair. “Danny, how do you give a blowjob?”

Danny chokes. On, like, air or something.

“Like… like… everyone always says it’s better when it’s wet, but, like, how wet? Should it be, like, dripping? Are we talking, like, epic amounts of spit here?”

Danny’s choking gets harder.

“And teeth. Is it really never a good thing? Or, like, is it one of those things everyone says is shitty but is actually _awesome_ like putting a finger up your ass.”

Danny’s face starts to go a little purple.

“Oh, hey, maybe that’s what I should be asking you about. What about anal? Is it true that there’s never too much lube? ‘Cause that just doesn’t seem sanitary. And, like, doesn’t it, like, slip out or something? Like a slip’n’slide? I love slip’n’slides.”

Danny collapses on his desk.

Stiles pokes him. “Danny?”

“Shut up Stiles,” Danny says, with a raspy voice.

“Oh my god. Is that how your voice got so low? From giving blowjobs?”

Danny groans.

*

Stiles looks at Lydia. Lydia looks back at Stiles. Stiles opens his mouth. Lydia quirks an eyebrow. Stiles closes his mouth, blushing.

“I thought you had something to ask me, Stiles,” Lydia says.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Yes.” He can do this. He can _do_ this. He can _totally_ ask the girl he’s had a crush on for forever how to give a blowjob. “How do you…“

“What? How do you what, Stiles?” Lydia says, voice losing a little of its airiness.

He’s totally got this. Totally. “How do you— _oo_ do it? Look that perfect day in and day out? Inquiring minds want to know.”

Yeah, not so much.

Lydia flips her hair over her shoulder. “Well, it starts with a daily facial…”

“Uh huh,” Stiles says.

“Of cow placenta and goat phallus.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles says. “Wait, what?”

Lydia smiles serenely at him.

Stiles is officially glad he never dated her, for the first time in the history of ever.

*

“You’re late,” Mr. Harris says as Stiles comes flying in the room, backpack falling off his shoulder.

“I know, I _know,_ ” Stiles says, settling into his seat. After the final bell, his curiosity was getting to be too much. He’d tried typing ‘wolf sex’ into his phone. He’d just meant to take a second, but then he’d seen there were videos. And if there’s one thing Stiles knows, it’s that he learns better from videos.

He’d clicked the first link and watched. The play fighting made him laugh aloud thinking of Scott and Jackson battling over fricking everything. But then he’d noticed the _biting_ thing, and for some reason he had to backtrack, watch it again. It made him warm all over watching that bite to the neck. It made him remember the other night, Derek a warm blanket of flesh, but more importantly his mouth on Stiles’ neck. After re-watching the biting scene a few times (six), he’d finally let the video go forward.

Suddenly the boy wolf was on the girl wolf, just going to town, hips pistoning and tail thumping and it was just… hot, unbelievably _hot_.

And then Stiles had sort of dropped his phone and when he’d picked it back up, the wolves were facing away from each other. But still connected. Like the boy wolf’s dick was still all up in the girl wolf. It was creepy.

The locker next to him had slammed and the noise had finally awakened him enough to realize he’d been staring at two wolves in the middle of some freaky sex-ritual for— _way_ too long.

So when Mr. Harris says, “ _Why_ were you late?” Stiles really has nothing to say. At all.

He takes a breath in trying to think of a good excuse and ends up choking on air.

Mr. Harris sighs and walks back to his desk. “Since you’re late to detention with no good reason, we’re going to repeat this little experiment tomorrow.”

“Experiment?” Stiles says, hoping that instead of doing his homework he’ll get to work on some, like, cool extra credit experiment thing during detention.

“Detention, Mr. Stilinski,” Mr. Harris says. “That is what we’re doing, if my memory serves.”

Stiles sighs and shrinks back into his chair. Detention. Another one. Great, just great. Stiles usually hates detention, the forced inactivity for an extra hour is enough to drive him haywire, but compounding it with the need to find out about the whole gay sex with a werewolf thing makes him itchy enough he can’t sit still. After the third time Stiles falls off his chair, Mr. Harris sighs and says, “What is it, Mr. Stilinski? Is it drugs? Cigarettes? Alcohol? You’re obviously going through some type of withdrawal. What is it?”

And Stiles says the first thing that comes to mind. “You’re, like, a science teacher, right?”

Mr. Harris sighs and says, “Considering the fact that you’ve been in my classroom for the past three years, I hoped you would know the answer to that. Yes. I’m a science teacher. I’m also head of the Chess Club.”

“ _Right,_ ” Stiles says. “So, since you’re a science teacher you know, like, anatomy and stuff.”

Mr. Harris props his forehead in his hand, just breathing for a second. Then he raises his head and looks Stiles right in the face. “Mr. Stilinski, I assume, as you have been going to school for the past dozen years, you have at some point experienced the ‘sex talk’. I am not a health teacher and thus don’t actually have to listen to you asking asinine questions about what goes where or how to last longer.”

Stiles says, “Yeah, so, what’s up with wolves? Like, why do they… You know, when they, like, have sex? Why do they stay all hooked together after? And, like, dude, doesn’t that hurt? I mean, I’ve never exactly tried it, but how can anything stand having its dick bent that way.”

Mr. Harris’ face goes kind of pale and his eyes go kind of wide and he covers his mouth and just stares at Stiles.

“Wait,” Stiles says, going back to what Mr. Harris said earlier. “Wait, you can make it last longer? Dude, how?”

Mr. Harris drops his head back into his hand and just shakes it for a minute, then he says, “Dismissed.”

Stiles gapes at the clock for a second, then at Mr. Harris, then back at the clock again, because it’s only been, like, ten minutes instead of the requisite hour of hell. There’s no way he’s getting out of it this easily. “What do you mean dis—“

Mr. Harris cuts him off mid-word, “ _Dismissed_ , Mr. Stilinski,” he says, rising to his feet. “Leave. Now.”

Stiles pushes himself to his feet, tugging his backpack along for the ride. “What about…”

“On second thought, I don’t believe there’s any reason to start that experiment tomorrow,” Mr. Harris says, pained expression on his face. “I have all the relevant data already.”

Stiles’ eyes grow huge and he breaks out into a grin, bellowing, “Thanks, Mr. Harris,” and running out the door. He’s not taking any chances. He’s getting free before Mr. Harris changes his mind.

*

“Bilinski!” Coach shouts as soon as he sees Stiles. “Bilinski, where in the hell have you been? Get your ass on the field.”

Stiles looks around himself at the rest of the players. “What? I mean, what? Coach, I’ve, uh, never had playing time.”

“Well luckily for you our two _co_ -captains decided it would be a good idea to crush Brian like an Oreo. He’s in the ER. You’re on the field.” He looks at Stiles, standing there and gaping at him. “What are you waiting for? You. Field. Now.” Then Coach is blowing the whistle and Stiles has to move. Either that or risk blowing an eardrum.

Stiles tugs his helmet on and jogs out to the field. Scott’s there, blood covering the left side of his uniform. And oh look, on Jackson it’s his right side that’s covered in blood. They’re like twins. Of _creepiness_. “Dude. Dude. What the heck did you do to the guy?”

Scott looks at Stiles, then looks at Jackson with some weird ‘wolf’ look, and then he’s looking back at Stiles. “Uh, nothing. Dude, Stiles, how’d you get here so soon? If you don’t go to detention Harris is gonna expel you.”

Stiles waves his hand in front of his face. “Pshaw.” He stops, thinks about it for a second. “You know, ‘pshaw’ is a funny word. Kind of like cantaloupe.”

“Stiles,” Scott says, looking all worried. “Detention.”

Stiles waves his hand again. “Like I was saying, dude, Harris totally let me go early. I don’t know why. Something about sex or something.”

“Wait, Mr. Harris has sex?” Scott asks.

The two of them trade looks of incredulity and grossed-out-ed-ness.

“Still, you shouldn’t be playing,” Scott says, looking over his shoulder at the side of the field.

“Why?” Stiles asks. “This is, like, my golden moment. And I’m going to seize it. I’m gonna seize it so hard. You’re gonna pass to me, right?”

Scott opens his mouth to respond, but whatever he was going to say is drowned out by Coach’s whistle. “C’mon guys,” Coach says. “I wanna see some hustle out there.”

Somehow he ends up playing _against_ Scott, which is just _wrong_ on some fundamental level. Even wronger, that means he’s playing _with_ Jackson.

Jackson smirks at him in the huddle. “You and Derek go at it yet?” he says, wagging his eyebrows and moving his fingers in a way that’s just obscene.

Stiles is a little impressed.

He’s still working out a response when Jackson continues. “Oh, wait. Never mind. Don’t know what I was thinking. The smell of virginity is all over you.”

Stiles flushes hot and is seconds away from starting a very ill-judged cat-fight with Jackson, when Coach blows the whistle and play begins.

The play is brutal, players all over each other, but for some reason no one touches Stiles. It’s strange and peculiar and possibly bizarre.

“Hey, Danny,” Stiles says when he, yet again, is completely free. He waves his stick in the air.

Danny looks indecisive for a second, surveying the field and how Stiles could easily score, then looking at the guys attempting to pummel _him_ in as many ways as they can.

Miraculously, Danny passes Stiles the ball.

Even more miraculously, Stiles catches it.

Stiles takes a second to calculate the angle in his head, but before he can attempt to score, someone is tackling him to the ground. Stiles swears he can hear Scott yelling, “Cody!” as he’s going down, but _that_ doesn’t make any sense so he shoves it aside as a fever dream.

The player being violently ripped off of him a few seconds later is a little more difficult to rationalize away. Stiles stares at the clear blue sky for a minute, then he’s turning to the side where Derek has, _huh, it was Cody,_ pinned firmly to the ground. Derek looks intense. Derek looks emotional. Derek…

“Oh, come on,” Stiles says, heaving himself off the ground. He turns to Jackson. “Dude. I thought you said he had to sleep with me first.”

Jackson arches his eyebrow. “Uh, yeah,” he says, leaning against his stick.

“What do you call that, then?” Stiles says, pointing over his shoulder at Derek. “He totally moved on to someone else before we even got to second base.”

Jackson winces, then he sends a shocked look to Stiles. “Wait. You guys kissed?”

Stiles thinks about it for a second. “No. No. We totally didn’t. We totally didn’t even make it to first base. How is this my life?” He looks up at Jackson, points a finger at him, which loses some of its threat with the gloves on. “I blame you. If you hadn’t led me to believe there would be sex, I would never have gotten my hopes up. But now I’m still ‘good old virgin Stiles,’ and he’s all— Wait, what are they doing anyway? Tell me they aren’t doing the nasty on the field.”

“Not as such, no,” Jackson says, wincing again.

“So? What?” Stiles says.

Jackson puts a hand over his eyes. His face goes a little green. “Derek is currently attempting to break Cody in two.”

“Wait, what?” Stiles says, turning around.

And there’s Derek, in all his glory, beating the stuffing out of Cody. “…and if you ever lay one finger on him, they’ll never find the body,” he’s saying, voice a low growl.

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” Jackson says.

Stiles feels a little smile form on his face. Derek’s beating somebody up. For him. Then he really looks at what Derek’s doing. He winces. “Uh, dude, you wanna stop punching my friend?”

Derek stops punching Cody.

And moves on to kicking.

Stiles shakes his head. “Not exactly what I meant.” From the ground next to him, Jackson groans.

*

Stiles had tried to talk to Derek after Scott managed to pull him off Cody, but the dude was gone in, like, seconds. It was creepy.

And then Coach brings up pressing charges.

“No!” Stiles says.

“No!” Scott says.

“No!” Cody says.

Stiles and Scott turn to stare at Cody. “What?” Cody says. “It was my fault. Scott warned me.”

“Scott warned you, huh?” Coach says, pacing in front of them. “Scott warned you about _what_ exactly? Not to get involved with drug lords? Gambling debts?” He rounds on Scott. “Well? What is it? Inquiring minds want to know.”

Scott looks confused and vaguely puzzled.

“Scott warned him,” Jackson says, suavely getting up from where he’d been attempting not to lose his lunch a second before, “not to steal the guy’s girlfriend.”

Coach turns to look at Jackson, then walks over to him. “You mean, this kid stole—“ he snaps his fingers—“what’s-his-name’s girlfriend?”

Jackson nods, slowly, leer stealing across his face.

Coach’s eyebrows furrow. “Wait. The guy. Who is he, anyway?”

“Stiles’ cousin. Miguel,” Danny says from the other side of the field.

“Wait, Stiles? Who’s Stiles?” Coach asks.

Stiles waves his hand.

“Your name is Stiles Bilinski?” Coach asks.

Stiles opens his mouth and tries out a few words on his tongue before saying, “Ye—es.”

“Man, your parents must hate you,” Coach says. He turns back to Jackson. “But really, Jackson, you expect me to believe a good looking guy like that could lose a girlfriend to Cody here?”

Cody groans from the ground.

Jackson turns to Coach with a smirk. “What can I say? The dude has an epically small dick.”

Stiles gasps. No, just no. “He doesn’t, right?” he says, turning to Scott. “Derek doesn’t have a small dick. That would be, like, criminal.”

Scott sort of half-shrugs and doesn’t say anything.

“Bilinski, what are you talking about?” Coach says. “We’re talking about your cousin Miguel. Not some Derek person. Who is this Derek person?”

“Stiles’ boyfriend,” Danny says with a smirk.

Stiles chokes on his own tongue. At least he thinks that’s what happens.

“Come on Bilinski, get your head in the game and out of your pants. Suicides. Everyone. Let’s go people!” Coach blows his whistle.

Stiles focuses on the grinding pain of the suicides and tries to forget the feeling he’d felt when Danny said Derek was Stiles’ boyfriend. After all, it doesn’t count as a crush until you acknowledge it, right? Right?

*

Stiles stumbles his way into his room, barely managing to make it onto the bed without falling off it. Coach had been _brutal_ with the suicides and the push-ups and all the other things Stiles pretty much can’t do.

Stiles extends his arms and legs and arches his back until he’s in a full-body stretch, toes straight and head tilted back.

It’s from this position that he sees Derek Hale. Sitting on his desk.

“Derek,” Stiles says, twisting his body until he’s more or less upright and wincing all the while, “what are you doing here? Waiting for me? In my very dark room?”

Derek doesn’t say anything, just stares at Stiles.

Stiles laughs under his breath. “Not creepy,” he says. “Not creepy at all.”

Derek _still_ doesn’t say anything.

“You don’t actually have a small dick, right?” What can Stiles say? He hates dead air.

Derek sort of rumbles and moves and then he’s over Stiles—on Stiles—holding his jaw. He noses along Stiles’ jaw, and then there are lips. Touching his.

Stiles is being kissed. Stiles is being kissed by Derek Hale.

It’s kind of awesome.

Stiles sort of figured Derek would be all aggressive with kissing, like he is with everything else. But Derek’s almost gentle or something. It’s just lips meeting lips, over and over and over, no teeth or tongue or blood (which Stiles can’t be blamed for thinking, really).

It’s over too soon, and then Derek is backing away, towards the open window.

“Wait,” Stiles says.

Derek stops, looks at him.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Stiles says.

Derek looks at him some more, sighs, and vaults through the window.

“What?” Stiles says, to the night air. “I’m going to be sleeping with it. Don’t I have a right to know?”

The night doesn’t have a response for him.

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some extremely non-explicit talk about knotting in this part.
> 
> Warning: a very embarrassing scene between Stiles and his father for anyone with an embarrassment squick.

*

Ever since his best friend started up the 'most epic romance of all time,' Stiles has learned how very important it is to maintain a fantastic relationship with the other member of said romance.

"Stiles," Allison says, from Scott's phone. "Hey, Scott's busy talking pack business with my dad. What's up?"

And yes, maybe a year ago this would have bothered him, because, really, he just had his first real kiss (he doesn't count the last one because he'd been locked in a closet with Marie O'Brien and all she'd let him get away with was a peck). But Stiles realized something a while ago now, something very important.

"Allison, my favorite girl in the whole world. You will never guess what happened," Stiles says, voice going high and excited.

"Don't tell me you finally did it? Did you and Lydia finally kiss?" Allison says, her voice equally excited.

"No," Stiles says, waving Lydia aside. "That was so last week. No, I made out with someone else."

"Oh my god, who?" Allison says, voice going breathy with suspense.

Stiles takes a deep breath then lets it out. "Derek Hale."

Allison squeals.

And _this_ is the reason Stiles no longer cares that Scott spends more time with his girlfriend than he spends sleeping. Because Allison makes a better best friend than Scott ever was.

"Details, Stiles. Details," Allison says, as soon as she has enough breath to talk again.

"Uh, it was really soft," Stiles says, finally getting up from the bed. He winces, feeling his legs tell him they don't want to work for at least another forty-eight hours, thank you very much. He slumps into his desk chair instead.

Allison lets out another mini-squeal. "That is so sweet. Was it sweet? Did he tell you he liked you?"

Stiles frowns. "No, uh, no, he didn't say anything."

"Ooh, that sounds so great Stiles. So mysterious," Allison says.

Stiles spins around on his chair, looking at the ceiling. "Yeah, he's mysterious all right."

"So, are you guys dating now?" Allison asks, voice full of hope.

Stiles stops himself with a toe to the floor. "No. No, I don't think so."

"Well, that's okay too," Allison says with a little chuckle. "Scott and I definitely rushed things and regretted it. Why don't you two take it slow and see how things develop on their own?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, not even knowing what he's agreeing to. He's too distracted by the little box sitting on his desk. "Listen, Allison, I have to go."

"Okay," Allison says. "But keep me in the loop. I'm not kidding Stiles, I want to know what's going on. Call me." A second later she continues, "I'll tell Scott you said hi."

"Okay, great. Bye," Stiles says, hanging up. He feels a grin stretching his cheeks to the point of hurting. There on his desk sits a little box staring innocently back at him. A little box with a tongue ring inside it.

"Oh my god," Stiles says to himself. "I have the best father in the whole wide world!"

*

'The Tongue Ring' has been a point of contention between Stiles and his father for almost a year now. Some of the conversations have gone like this:

Stiles: "It's, like, the best possible piercing to get. You can't even see it most of the time."

Stiles' dad: "No. I'm not letting you have another way to get infected without even trying."

(Which wasn't even fair. Stiles has been almost completely healthy for three years now.)

Stiles: "Lydia has one."

Stiles' dad: "Lydia also has a drunk and disorderly _and_ a DUI. Do you want one of either of those?"

(And okay, yes, that was the week Stiles' dad had noticed the missing bottle of Jack, so Stiles shouldn't have been surprised about that one.)

Stiles: "Ha. I'm eighteen now. I can totally get a tongue ring and you can't do anything about it. Sucks to be you."

Stiles' dad: "Not if you want to live in this house, you can't."

(And that one's the worst of all, 'cause it's not like Stiles is going away to college or anything. He's freeloading off his dad as long as he can get away with it.)

So the fact that Stiles' dad has finally caved is nothing short of monumental.

"Dad," Stiles says, running down the stairs. "Dad, dude, you rock!" He hurls himself into his father's arms.

"Kiddo," Stiles' dad says, giving him a hug. "What'd I do to deserve this?"

"You know," Stiles says, squeezing harder for a second before letting go. "Seriously, I never thought I'd see the day, you know?"

"What day, Stiles?" Stiles' dad asks, suspicion growing in his voice. He backs up, then backs up a little further. "What the hell happened to you?"

Stiles checks his forehead, checks his ears, but no, no, not a werewolf. Still perfectly fine, thanks very much.

Stiles' dad closes his eyes and then he's saying, "A little lower, kid."

And Stiles doesn't feel anything wrong with the rest of his face either, but then Stiles' dad is leading him to the old mirror in the hall and Stiles is looking back at himself and—

"Got a nice case of stubble-burn, there," Stiles' dad says, sighing. "You want to tell me something, or you got some hare-brained story to explain it away."

"Oh," Stiles says, tracing careful fingers over his mouth, over his jaw, over his cheeks, all stained red in a way that can't be explained away. "I guess you wouldn't believe me if I told you I was dating the incredible bearded lady from the circus."

Stiles' dad does not look amused.

"I'm—uh—I'm bi?" he says eventually, staring at himself in the mirror to see if it fits.

Stiles' dad sighs and puts his hands to his forehead. "Is that what they're calling it nowadays?" he says. He turns to Stiles, looks at him, says, "You seeing someone then? A guy?"

"No, not—no," Stiles says rubbing a hand over the evidence, trying to rub it away. "It's just—a thing."

Stiles' dad sighs again and turns away. "The same rules stand, Stiles. No sex in my house, no sex in the Jeep. And you're smart enough to know just messing around with somebody isn't gonna get you what you want. You're a good kid, Stiles. You deserve somebody who sees that."

Stiles walks closer to his dad, puts a hand on his dad's back. "You're not mad?" Stiles asks.

Stiles' dad's shoulders slump. He turns back to Stiles and pulls him back into a hug. "Son, I'm never going to be mad at you for being who you are. You deserve everything good in the world, and if that everything good means I end up with a son-in-law instead of a daughter-in-law, I'm not going to judge you for it."

"Thanks Dad," Stiles says, squeezing him again. He pushes back a little and says, "I really meant it before, though. I never thought you'd cave."

"Never thought I'd cave on what?" Stiles' dad says.

"The tongue ring," Stiles says.

Stiles' dad's face goes red. "What, precisely, makes you think I _caved_ about the tongue ring?" he says.

Stiles backs up. "Uh, well, the—you know—tongue ring _sitting on my desk_ was a pretty good indication. As far as indications go."

Stiles' dad's face starts to go splotchy. "Stiles? Who is this boy?"

"Uh, why?" Stiles asks, backing up further.

"Because I want to know precisely who the little miscreant is who's buying my son a tongue ring," Stiles' dad says, advancing on him.

Stiles' eyes open in shock. His mouth opens in shock. _That means…_ "Derek," his mouth says, before he can stop it.

Stiles throws a hand over his mouth, but it's too late, the damage is already done.

Stiles' dad is throwing his hat on his head and walking toward the door. "I'm gonna find out who this _Derek_ is, and the two of us are going to have a _nice_ talk. Man to man."

Stiles groans.

"You've never talked about a Derek before," Stiles' dad says, on his way out the door. "Other than that Hale boy." He freezes, looks at Stiles, then he's going for his gun.

"No, Dad. No," Stiles says.

"Don't worry," Stiles' dad says. "I'm not gonna kill him. I'm just gonna make him _wish_ he was dead."

Stiles watches his dad walk to his car, practically twitching in place. As soon as the car pulls out of the driveway, Stiles is dialing his phone, praying to god that for once, Derek actually answers.

The line picks up.

"Hi," Stiles says. "Great kiss by the way. I, uh, might have done something a little stupid."

Derek growls out a low, "What?"

"I may, and when I say may I mean _did_ tell my dad that you, uh, gave me a tongue ring."

Derek growls again, only this time there are no words.

"I know," Stiles says. "Stupid, right? Stupid Stiles. But I was under duress. Extreme duress. My dad was being all caring and concerned and I thought he'd bought me a tongue ring. How did you know I wanted a tongue ring, anyway? I only ask because the only person who knew about it was Lydia. At least I thought—"

He's cut off by a voice coming from the other end of the line. A voice that doesn't belong to Derek. "—tell me exactly why you thought it would be a good idea to give my son a tongue ring?"

"Okay, then. Bye," Stiles says, hanging up. Derek will be fine. He's a werewolf, he has to be fine. Right? Right.

*

 _Derek_ may be fine (not that Stiles has any way of actually knowing), but Stiles, on the other hand, most definitely is not.

"Oh my god, Dad. No. Just, _no,_ " Stiles says, backing away from his father.

"Hate to contradict you buddy, but yes, we are going over sex ed all over again. And this time in new and exciting ways."

Stiles groans.

"Look at it this way, kid, this is going to be at least as painful for me as it is for you," Stiles dad says, grimacing. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a condom and a dildo.

"My eyes!" Stiles says, burying his whole head in his arms to try and escape the indignity that is his life right now.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But we have two options here. We either go through this hour—" Stiles interrupts him with a groan—" _this hour_ of sex safety, or you refrain from having sex with Derek Hale. Can you honestly promise me not to have sex with him?"

Stiles raises his head from his arms. "Yes. I promise. I won't have sex with Derek Hale. Hey, for that matter, I won't have sex with anyone ever. I'll just live a sad, miserable, lonely life. With cats."

Stiles' dad raises his eyebrow. "Yeah, sell me another 'cause I ain't buyin'. I know you, kiddo, there's no way in hell you're giving up sex with Derek Hale."

"Yes," Stiles says, fervently. "Yes, I am. After that—" he points to the dildo sitting innocently on the table—"I will never want to have sex again. Every time I even think about sex the image of _you_ and _that_ will pop into my head and stick there and I won't be able to think of anything else. Even naked Derek Hale. Is he still breathing, by the way?"

Stiles' dad grimaces. "Yeah, I didn't kill your boyfriend." He stops, gives Stiles a hard look. "Hey, speaking of that. Boyfriend? Why'd you lie to me Stiles?"

Stiles face had heated as soon as he'd heard the word 'boyfriend' but now it feels frozen stiff. "I didn't lie to you," he says.

"Funny, from the way you say that, I almost believe you. But really, kid, what do you take me for? You go over to his house, on average, four days a week?"

"Well, yeah, but it's not just us. Scott and Allison are there. And Jackson and Lydia." Stiles rubs a hand over the back of his scalp.

Stiles' dad's eyebrow rises. "Yeah, and this isn't any indication to you that the two of you might be dating?"

"What do you mean?" Stiles asks.

"Your two sets of dating friends and you go over to a guy's house, a guy in his twenties, which you and I are going to have words about, and you go with them and, according to the twenty-something-year-old, watch movies and eat pizza. Now, it might just be my old age confusing me, but that sounds pretty date-like to me."

"Oh," Stiles says, voice small. Because, yes, Derek exaggerated with the movie thing (they only do that about once a week), but really, when they get over to Derek's, they do tend to pair off. Allison and Lydia and Scott all end up in one of the bedrooms just, like, being girly and shit, and Jackson always is, like, ignoring them all and texting Danny or whoever is cool that week. So usually it is just Stiles and Derek, working on pack business and looking up information about local threats.

Huh, Stiles' dad is right. He and Derek _are_ kind of dating.

"You know the funny thing is, Derek didn't seem to know the two of you were dating either," Stiles' dad says. "When I asked him why he got you the tongue ring, you know what he said? He said, and I quote, 'Because I knew he would like it'."

Stiles is suddenly blushing, face heating up. He looks down at the table. He can't look at his dad, can't meet his eyes.

"So I gave him a few ideas of gifts that were actually appropriate to give my eighteen-year-old son. Who's in high school."

Stiles looks at his dad feeling betrayed. "You didn't," he says.

"Oh, yes. Yes, I did," Stiles' dad says with a smirk. "I think you'll find the next few gifts from your boyfriend to involve a lot less body piercing and a lot more socks. And Steve Miller Band albums."

Stiles groans and bangs his head on the table. "Damn you! Foiled by your sneaky yet inevitable plot!"

*

After the agonizing safe sex talk involving far too much information on far too many STDs and far too much discussion about which lube is best for which situation, Stiles is finally free. Free to escape and do what he's needed to do for at least a few days now.

"Derek," Stiles says, walking through the front door. "Derek? Are you not home, here, or are you just being a creepy weirdo who hides in the shadows?"

There's a noise from the corner. Stiles whirls to face it, and there Derek is, looking at him guiltily.

"Ah, so the latter then," Stiles says.

"Stiles," Derek says, determined look crossing his face.

"Derek," Stiles says.

"Stiles, you can't be here," Derek says.

Stiles' eyebrow goes up. "What? I must have hit my head or something. I could've sworn you just told me I couldn't be here. And we both know that isn't the case, after all, _you've_ been cornering _me_ for the last twenty-four hours, _completely_ without provocation. _Completely_."

Derek growls. "Nothing with you is without provocation," he says.

"Yeah. Whatever," Stiles says. "Now can we move on to the part where we're apparently dating?"

Derek turns around. To look at… the wall. The plain white wall. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"See, that's funny," Stiles says, pacing back and forth. "Because according to my dad we've been dating for, like, months now. And there's the whole fact that you're buying me presents."

Stiles swears the back of Derek's neck goes red.

"Of course, according to Jackson, I'm just the first in a long line of conquests."

Derek turns around and is _on_ him in, like, a second. " _What_ did Jackson say?" Derek says, voice a low growl.

"Nothing," Stiles says, trying to pry Derek's fingers off him from where he has Stiles pinned to the wall. "Nothing at all."

" _Stiles,_ " Derek says threateningly.

" _Okay,_ " Stiles says. "He may— _may_ —have mentioned something about a 'heat.' He may also have mentioned how that brings out your more 'primal' urges."

"I'm going to kill him," Derek says, and then he's punching the wall behind Stiles' head.

"So, does this display of aggression mean you wanted the whole moving on afterwards thing to be a surprise? Because, hey, you can color me shocked." Stiles spreads his arms and tries to back away, but oh, yeah, wall.

"He _lied_ to you," Derek says, suddenly going from pissed to upset. "I can't believe he lied to you."

"It's _Jackson_. Frankly, I'd be more shock if he didn't," Stiles says. He tilts his head, asks, "What did he lie about, exactly?"

Derek doesn't say anything, just looks at him.

And then Stiles suddenly gets it. "There's not gonna be any sex at all, is there? Oh, come on!"

"Stiles," Derek says, body still close but no longer threatening.

Stiles scoffs, "I mean I know it's Jackson's goal in life to mock me mercilessly. But really, to taunt a guy with sex?"

"Stiles," Derek says again, and then he's tilting Stiles' head, kissing him soft, so soft.

As soon as Derek's mouth leaves, Stiles' mouth is talking again, without conscious effort. "Especially when you're talking about virginity—wait. What was that?"

Derek goes from looking at him kind of how Scott looks at Allison, to looking at him with alarm bordering on horror. "You're a virgin," he says.

"Yep," Stiles says.

"You _can't_ be a virgin," Derek says, backing away.

"Sorry to burst your bubble, but I really, really am," Stiles says, walking forward.

"Even your dad thinks you're not a virgin," Derek says, running his hands through his hair.

"And that would be because he thinks _we're_ having sex," Stiles says. And boy, hadn't that been a fun conversation. At least when he'd replied in the affirmative when his dad asked if they were being safe, he wasn't actually lying to him. After all, still not a werewolf.

"Scott has had sex," Derek says.

"I know," Stiles says.

"Allison has had sex," Derek says.

"With Scott. I know," Stiles says.

"Jackson has had sex," Derek says.

"Oh my god I _know_ ," Stiles says.

"Lydia has had sex," Derek says.

Stiles shoots him an incredulous look. "Okay, not only do _I_ know that—and boy howdy do I—half the western seaboard knows that. No, wait. Scratch that. _All_ the western seaboard."

Derek sends him a betrayed look.

"There's nothing _wrong_ with virginity," Stiles says, crossing his arms. "It's, like, normal to be a virgin at eighteen."

Derek closes his eyes and tilts his head toward the ground. He doesn't say anything for so long Stiles is about to just leave, just walk out. But then Derek's speaking, saying, "I don't know if I can do this."

Stiles asks, "What _is_ this exactly?" impatient to find out. After all, that's why he came here in the first place.

Derek sighs. "I can't exactly put it into words."

"If you could, would those words include 'you' and 'me' and 'boyfriends'?" Stiles asks, hope rising.

"Yeah. Okay," Derek says, finally looking up at him. "Boyfriends. I can do boyfriends."

"So, about the size of your dick…"

*

 

Stiles sort of wants to stay and spend time with Derek (and by _spend time with Derek_ , Stiles actually means have messy, sweaty loss of virginity), but Derek gets all tense for some reason and kicks Stiles out before they even get to second base. Which is so unfair it's not even funny.

So, Stiles is walking back to his jeep, kicking through the leaves littering the ground, when he sees that a crossbow is aimed at him. "You have got to be _kidding_ me."

But then the beam is lowering and Mr. Argent is stepping out from behind a tree like the creepy ninja he is. "Stiles," Mr. Argent says, looking at him like he's about to sprout fangs at any second.

"Mr. Argent," Stiles says, chuckling a little. "Fancy meeting you here. Why, precisely, am I meeting you here anyway? Testing the new weaponry out on the wildlife?"

"Actually," Mr. Argent says, "I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you."

"Uh, that is in no way creepy," Stiles says, scratching the back of his neck. "What'd you want to talk about?"

"Sex safety," Mr. Argent says.

Stiles falls over into a tree.

"No offense, Mr. A, but dad literally _just_ finished doing that," Stiles says, backing away. He looks at Mr. Argent's creepy smile and backs away a little faster. "By the way, anybody ever tell you it's a stupid idea to offer to explain sex to, like, underage people you _don't_ know?"

"You're not underage, Stiles," Mr. Argent says with a laugh.

Stiles walks even faster. "And it's not in _any_ way creepy that you know that."

Suddenly, a hand is closing around Stiles' wrist. Mr. Argent smiles at him innocuously and says, "By sex safety, I meant werewolf sex, of course."

And… well, that's what he'd been asking for, right? Information about sex with Derek offered up on a silver platter. It's just, Mr. Argent is so, _so_ creepy.

After deliberating for a few minutes, Stiles tugs his wrist free and says, "Okay, here's how this works. I ask you questions and you answer them. Honestly. No, like, trying to scare me away from Derek by inventing painful, bizarre werewolf sex."

If anything, Mr. Argent's smile grows at that. "All right, Stiles. Complete honesty. No problem."

Stiles swallows. He says, "Is werewolf sex different from regular sex?"

"Not always," Mr. Argent says.

"But…" Stiles says, because, the way Mr. Argent is talking, there's definitely a but.

"But for you and Derek it will be," Mr. Argent says.

"Oh my god, it's because he's the Alpha, isn't it? He, like, can't have sex as a human, right? The only way he can have sex is as a wolf." Stiles moans and bangs his head against the closest tree.

"No, Derek can have sex in his human form," Mr. Argent says.

"Oh, thank god," Stiles says. "Then what is it? Is there, like, biting or something?"

"Yeah, there will definitely be biting," Mr. Argent says.

Stiles tries not to show how awesome he thinks that is. The 'yes' with added fist-pump probably doesn't help his circumspectness.

"So, is that it?" Stiles asks. "Is there more?"

"Yeah," Mr. Argent says, "sorry, but there is."

"Oh god," Stiles says, "I know what it is."

"You do?" Mr. Argent asks, amused.

"It's about his dick isn't it?" Stiles says.

"Yeah," Mr. Argent says.

He looks like he's about to keep talking, but Stiles talks over him. He's the rip-the-bandage off now kind of person. "Is it, like, a wolf thing?"

"Well, yes," Mr. Argent says, with a quirked eyebrow. "Wolves and dogs. In fact, most canines have it."

"How do they, like, make baby wolves? And dogs? I mean, doesn't it make it harder?" Stiles asks.

"Actually, I don't think it makes it harder," Mr. Argent says with a quirked eyebrow. "I think it's just about the same as always."

"Well, that's good for them," Stiles says with a sigh, "but what's it gonna do for me? I mean, what do I get out of it? Say, he wouldn't go for things the other way around, would he?" Stiles asks, hope making one last effort to flare to life in his chest.

"No, I'm afraid not," Mr. Argent says, patting Stiles on the back.

"Of course not," Stiles says, hope dying a painful death.

"There was a reason I was here, Stiles, a reason I wanted to talk to you," Mr. Argent says, with a sad little smile. "I wanted to warn you. Things are different with a fully adult werewolf. It's only fair you know beforehand what you're getting into."

And somehow they must've been walking as they were talking because suddenly Stiles is at his jeep. "Thanks Mr. A. I guess."

"No problem, Stiles," Mr. Argent says, slapping the top of the jeep. "You have a good day."

"Yeah," Stiles says. "Right." He gets into the jeep and pulls out, waving a disheartened goodbye to Mr. Argent.

It turns out it's just as bad as he thought after all. Derek does have a small penis.

*

Stiles mopes around his room. Stiles mopily mopes around his room. Eventually he gets bored moping in his room so he goes downstairs to mope in the living room. He figures he can mopily watch television. Judge Judy, Fox News, Rachel Ray—the television of pain.

Only, when he gets downstairs, his dad is already there, mopily watching television himself.

"Something wrong, son?" his dad asks, looking away from the rerun he's watching. The rerun of golf. Stiles' dad's mopes must be as bad as Stiles' at least. "You're not looking very happy considering you spent the evening with Derek." He gets a funny gleam in his eyes, one Stiles remembers well from his brief stint as a percussionist. "He didn't do anything wrong, did he? Try anything he shouldn't have?"

"No, Dad," Stiles says with a sigh.

"Are you sure?" Stiles' dad is asking. "Remember 'no' means no, even when two people are dating."

"No," Stiles says. "See, that was me saying 'no' right now. But to you, not him."

Stiles' dad still doesn't look convinced, so Stiles starts talking again, hoping to nip that in the bud before it's even begun. "It's, like, guy troubles, Dad. Believe me when I tell you, you wouldn't want to know."

Stiles' dad turns the television off, then he's staring at the blank screen. "Sometimes I really wish your mother was here. I think she would've known how to deal with this a heckuva lot better than I can."

"It's not like you're doing a _bad_ job," Stiles says, flopping down onto the sofa next to him. "You're trying. That's what matters, right?"

Stiles' dad turns to him and slaps him on the thigh. "But you can always try harder. Now, come on kid. Out with it. What's got you looking like somebody forgot to put frosting on your birthday cake?"

"Who even cares about the cake?" Stiles says, sitting up a little straighter. "All that _matters_ is the frosting."

Stiles' dad raises his eyebrow. "Nice attempt to evade the question, there, kiddo, but you're not getting away with it. What's wrong on lover's lane?"

 _Don't talk about Derek's penis. Don't talk about Derek's penis,_ Stiles thinks, brain spinning furiously. _Something else. Anything else. Just, don't talk about Derek's penis._ "Derek has a really small penis," someone's saying. And, huh, that someone seems to be… Stiles.

Stiles throws a hand over his mouth and closes his eyes. "Oh my god."

"Um," Stiles' dad says.

"Oh my god, I can't believe I said that," Stiles says.

And then Stiles' dad is talking and the words he says aren't 'I can't either.' Instead he's saying, "Have you two tried sexual aides?"

Stiles pinches himself because this _can't_ be real. He's _got_ to be dreaming (if by dream, one means _nightmare_ ), but he doesn't suddenly wake up back in his bed. When he opens his eyes, he is, in fact, still sitting on the couch with the television off. And his dad's still sitting next to him, looking a little green around the gills.

"Oh my god Dad!" Stiles says, voice a shout. "Why would you possibly say that? What? Are you trying to scar me for life?" He puts his hands over his ears to block out any future trauma-causing words.

But his dad just _raises his voice_ because apparently he wants to _continue_ the agony that is this conversation. "I don't know why you're making such a big deal out of this, bucko. In this day and age _lots_ of couples feel the need for a little… variety."

"Oh my god, Dad. Oh my god. What is _wrong_ with you?" Stiles shouts, eyes closed tight in a mixture of embarrassment and acute _pain_.

"After all, that's why silicone was invented," Stiles' dad says. And that—that's the final straw.

Stiles jumps from the sofa and yells, "Okay. This is what's gonna happen. I'm going to go upstairs and the two of us are never going to talk about this again. In fact, we're going to forget this entire conversation ever happened."

As Stiles is going up to his room, he hears his dad say, "But he just came downstairs." There's a pause for a second, then he's continuing, "I swear, I'll never understand that boy."

*


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter tonight because ya'll have been so great about commenting. This is a short one, but only because that was how the story fell.
> 
> Warning for **The Angst**. 
> 
> Also, there is going to be a surprise pairing added at the end. If anyone guesses correctly, they get virtual hugs (or a filled prompt--whichever they'd prefer).

Stiles wakes up the next morning with a new spring to his step. After all, just because his and Derek's sex life is doomed to failure, it doesn't mean the whole relationship is going to be bad. And Stiles is still hopeful he'll be able to get a few blow jobs out of Derek, if he's persuasive enough.

But when Stiles sees Allison in the hallway later that morning, he really does want to slap her, chivalry be damned.

"Stiles," Allison says, running up to him and wrapping him in a hug. _Damn, why does she make it so difficult to be angry with her?_ "I'm so happy for you! Now tell me everything. Has he called you since the kiss? Texted?"

"No," Stiles says, twisting himself out of her grip. "Not that I'd tell you about it anyway. I'm not talking to you."

"Not yet, huh," Allison says, patting him on the back. "I wouldn't worry about it. You're a catch, Stiles. I'm sure he can see that. Actually I know that he _knows_ that. Scott totally said that Derek has had a major thing for you for just ages."

"Really?" Stiles says, smiling to himself a little. Derek's had a thing for Stiles longer than Stiles has had a thing for Derek. That totally means Stiles won.

Then he remembers—he's mad at Allison. He shakes Allison's hand off him and takes a few steps away to where she can no longer brainwash him with her kindness and caring. "No. Wait. Don't answer that. I'm not talking to you. Remember?"

Allison looks hurt, which is totally unfair. Stiles is the one who should look hurt. _Stiles_ is the one who was _betrayed_.

"You mean, you actually meant that?" She says, batting her eyes and looking like she's ten seconds away from crying. "I thought you were just upset because Derek hadn't called. I didn't think you were actually mad at me."

"You didn't think I was mad at you? Allison, how could I help but be mad at you? You sicced your father on me," Stiles says, justifiably pissed.

"What are you talking about, Stiles?" Allison asks, voice full of confusion.

"I'm talking about your dad cornering me in the woods and forcing me—at arrow-point—to have a nice, long, uncomfortable conversation with him about werewolf anatomy," Stiles says, voice going high with anger. "I'm _talking_ about you telling your dad about Derek and me."

"I didn't tell my dad about you and Derek," Allison says, eyes going wide with shock.

"Well, if you didn't, who did?" Stiles asks.

"Me," comes a voice from behind him.

Stiles jumps, startled, and turns around to find—"Scott?"

"Scott!" Allison says, slapping Scott on the shoulder. "You told my dad about Stiles and Derek? How could you?"

And oh, yeah, _Scott's_ the one who let the cat out of the bag. Stiles hits Scott himself for good measure. "Yeah. How could you, Scott?"

"Uh," Scott says, scratching the back of his neck. "Well Mr. Argent was worried since Derek's going into heat. I just told him so he wouldn't try to put Derek down like a rabid dog or something."

Stiles exchanges a look with Allison. "Okay," she says, "we understand. But next time, you tell Stiles about it first."

"Okay," Scott says, breathing out a great gusting sigh. Allison grabs his hand and the two of them kiss and for the first time in the history of ever, Stiles finds it cute instead of vaguely nauseating.

Scott and Allison smile at each other, then Scott's smiling at Stiles instead. He just stands there with a goofy grin on his face for a second, then his eyes are widening and he's tugging his hand free from Allison's. "I almost forgot," he says, and then he's reaching into his backpack and grabbing—a present. At least Stiles thinks it's a present. It's hard to tell really. Whatever it is, it's wrapped in foil. Scott puts it in Stiles' hands. "For you," he says.

Stiles looks at the package in his hands. It looks about the size of one of those three-packs of socks. He sighs and tears it open and it's—"A dildo." His hands fly up in shock and he accidentally throws it up into the air.

Scott catches it. Then he sees what it is and he drops it. Luckily, by that point Stiles has his wits about him enough that he makes a diving catch.

He holds it for a second, looking at it. It's massive, black and ridged, and it looks like something out of the kinkiest porn around. Stiles turns around and fumbles open his locker and shoves it inside.

"Oh, look. There's a note," Scott says, from behind Stiles.

And then Allison is saying, in a voice eerily reminiscent of Derek, " 'Stiles, this is for you. Your father said you wanted it. He also said to include a note this time. So, note.' " She stops for a second and just as Stiles is about to die of embarrassment, she continues, "This part is in parentheses. 'By the way, have I mentioned your dad is weird?' "

"Wow, how embarrassing, Stiles," Scott says.

Stiles covers his face with his hands.

"Well, look at it this way," Allison says. "At least he didn't say to think of him when you use it."

And no, no, _this_ is what dying of embarrassment feels like.

*

"So. I heard you're gay now," Lydia says, sitting down next to him.

Stiles isn't sure which part of that shocks him more. The fact that a rumor's going around that he's gay, or the fact that Lydia _voluntarily_ sat with him. He thinks about it for a second. Nope, it's definitely that Lydia's sitting next to him.

"So, Lydia, what causes you to grace me with your presence?" Stiles asks, eyes wide.

"Well, if you really are gay now, I won't need to worry about you slobbering all over me anymore," Lydia says, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "You are gay, right?"

Stiles thinks about his answer. He thinks about it long and hard. He could be honest. He should be honest, probably. After all, this is the girl he's been head-over-heels for since grade school. "Yes. Yes I am. Gay. I'm gayer than Danny."

"Really?" a voice says behind him. And, of course, who should that voice belong to but Danny. "I didn't think that was possible." He pauses for a second, tilts his head to the side, then he's saying, "But you're really starting to make me rethink my assumptions there."

"What're you saying," Stiles says, irritated. "I'm not—" He catches sight of Lydia. A Lydia _sitting at his table_. Who's _not_ being paid to pretend she knows him (Stiles thinks). "I'm… not… even going to acknowledge you're gay anymore," Stiles says, internally wincing. "As far as I can tell, you're, like, bi."

Lydia gasps.

Danny's boyfriend gasps. Then he says, "I knew it. I _knew_ no gay man would actually play an organized high school sport." He picks up his backpack and says, "That's it. We're through."

 _Danny_ watches his boyfriend— _ex_ -boyfriend—walking away, then he glares at Stiles, turning around and flouncing off in a snit. "You're going to be sorry you said that," he says over his shoulder.

"So," Lydia says, inching closer to Stiles. "How do you feel about Vera Wang?"

"Vera who?" Stiles asks, confused. There's a Yun Jin Wang in his psych class, but Stiles has no idea why Lydia would be asking about her mother of all people.

" _Exactly,_ " Lydia says, practically chortling with glee. "Stiles, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

"Oh," Stiles says, excited. "You like classic movies too?" Stiles has always had a soft spot for them himself. His mom had left a huge collection when she'd passed away, and he used to spend all his free time watching Bogie and Hepburn and Gable.

Lydia slaps him on the back of the head. "Stiles. Pay attention. We were _talking_ about fashion. Now, what do you think about Michael Kors?"

Stiles panics. Fashion. Fashion, fashion, fashion. What could Stiles _possibly_ say about fashion? "His clothes are _so_ last year," his mouth says for him.

Lydia throws an arm around his shoulders. "Oh my god. It's like we're the same person." She looks at herself, in her, like, ultra-trendy skirt and sweater, and then she looks at Stiles. In his plaid. "No, not that," she says. "It's like we have the same brain. Now tell me what you think about Heidi Klum." She uses the arm already wrapped around him to pull him closer.

And closer just happens to be straight into her bosom. _I'm_ so _going to hell for this,_ Stiles thinks to himself.

He snuggles a little closer.

"Heidi, or Hindy, as I like to call her, is a two-bit hack."

*

After a day spent criticizing every fashion designer to ever make clothes, Stiles is only too happy to collapse onto his bed. From today, he's learned two things. First off, there are only so many insults in the English language. Eventually you run out. Second, Lydia's kind of a huge bitch.

Stiles is glad yet again that he's not dating her, and now he's simply depressed he wasted so much time and so many insults on her.

He's lying on his back, wishing he'd spent his day thinking about Derek instead, when Derek is suddenly, inexplicably there.

He kisses Stiles, mouths meeting over and over again until Stiles can't tell anymore where he ends and where Derek begins. And then, somehow, for some reason, his mouth is betraying him. "I can't believe you gave me a dildo!"

"You like it?" Derek says with a smirk.

"No," Stiles says, whapping him over the head. "Especially since I opened it up in school. _Especially,_ with that note."

"Well how was I supposed to know that?" Derek says, voice all growly. "Your dad said you would like it."

"Yeah, well, if I liked _everything_ my dad said I liked, I would a have a deep-seated need for a Tickle-Me-Elmo," Stiles says with a snort.

Derek pulls another package from his back pocket, this time wrapped in newspaper. "Then you're definitely not going to like this," he says. "I guess I'll just throw it in the trash."

He gets up from where he was propped over Stiles and makes a move for the trash can. Stiles reaches out and grabs Derek's wrist and says, "Derek."

Derek says, "I thought you said you didn't want it." He looks _pissed,_ body all high-strung and tensed up. But under that, so far down Stiles can barely see it, Derek looks scared.

"Derek. Please," Stiles says, voice cracking a little.

Derek tenses even further, then he's dropping the package, turning away.

Stiles tears the newspaper off carefully, and inside he finds two Blu-rays: 'Arsenic and Old Lace' and 'Casablanca.'

"Derek, I—" Stiles tries to come up with words, but they escape him. For the first time in his life, he actually gets what they mean by the phrase 'stunned speechless.'

"Your dad said 'Arsenic and Old Lace' was your favorite. So I gave you your favorite and mine." He pulls the copy of 'Casablanca' from Stiles' numb fingers, looks down at the Blu-ray. "This is the version with all the alternate endings. It's funny to think of it ending any way other than how it did." He doesn't say anything for a few seconds, just looks down at the Blu-ray in his hands. Then he's looking up at Stiles, saying, "Stiles, say something. Please. I don't care if you hate it, just—"

"It's perfect," Stiles says. "It's absolutely perfect." He looks up at Derek and Derek is looking down at him and then, suddenly, they're on each other, mouths battling each other. It's nothing like any of the kisses they've had before. Stiles kind of thinks it blows all of those kisses out of the water.

There's biting, teeth nipping into lips, nipping at tongues, and sucking, tongue and lips getting the same rough treatment. Everything is _wet_ and _wild_ and so, _so_ good.

Derek's fingers start to trace Stiles' sides, leaving a shivering feeling of want in their wake. His mouth traces over Stiles' jaw, then he's moving lower, moving to Stiles' neck just like before. Just like the first time. His hands move lower yet, tracing the band of Stiles' jeans. And yes— _yes_ —Stiles is totally gonna round second base tonight. Then Derek licks Stiles' neck—

And freezes.

"Is there a reason that you smell like Lydia?" Derek says, voice the low rumble of the wolf.

"Yeah, man," Stiles says, rubbing a hand over Derek's back, trying to get him back with the program. "Because she was all over me."

"She was all over you," Derek growls. And then he howls, voice high and desperate-sounding and changes, body of a wolf suddenly propped over Stiles. He gives Stiles one last baleful wolf glare and then he's vaulting up and out the window.

"Dude, come on," Stiles says, from the bed, his epic hard-on making it difficult to move. "This is, what? Like, jealousy? Over Lydia? Come on Derek, like I'd even think of choosing her over you."

He waits for a few seconds, but Derek doesn't come bounding back in wearing either form.

"Come on Derek. Please? Don't leave me hanging here, man."

Still nothing. Which is just ridiculous. Stiles is totally putting everything on the line here.

"I don't care how hot she is, or how much of an asshole you can be, or what size your dick is. I will always choose you over her."

When Derek still hasn't come back ten minutes later, Stiles gives it up as a lost cause an makes his slow, painful way to the bathroom. It's totally uncool of Derek to just leave him this wound up. Stiles would never leave Derek with a case of blue balls.

*

After spending the rest of the night staring at his phone, Stiles tries falling asleep, but he's restless—his mind telling him there's no fricking way it's winding down with everything still up in the air between him and Derek.

Stiles spends a few hours tossing and turning before he falls into a light doze. He's woken up from his sleep almost immediately by his phone buzzing on his nightstand. He's reaching out for it before he's even fully awake, knowing— _knowing_ —that something is wrong. Derek's been in some kind of accident. Or is sick. Or, like, killed someone 'cause he was so pissed at Stiles. (Stiles hopes it's not the last one. He really, really hopes it's not the last one.)

But when he checks to see who the text is from, it isn't from Derek at all. In fact, it's not even from anyone he would associate with Derek. It's from Danny.

Stiles opens the text, figuring Danny's pissed at him for forgetting the lab report _again_ , but when he sees what the text is, he realizes Danny's pissed for another reason altogether.

The message isn't actually a text, it's a picture message. And the picture is a very tilted, slightly blurry image of Danny kissing someone. Someone with dark brown hair and a leather jacket and ears that are starting to go pointy at the tip.

Stiles stares at the picture in shock for a full minute before he can truly admit what he's seeing. He's _seeing_ Danny making out with—with—with _Derek_. With _Stiles'_ Derek.

It's funny, before he saw the picture he thought he only wanted to have sex with Derek. That Derek was a hot guy that Stiles liked more because of the forced bonding than anything else.

But as soon as Stiles sees the picture, it's like his heart is splitting in half. It's wrong. It's so, so wrong that _anyone_ would be kissing Derek other than Stiles.

Stiles puts a thumb over Danny's face, pretends it's him in that picture with Derek. This would be their first picture together. Stiles has always wanted to take those really inappropriate pictures that make old ladies say, " _Well_. I never." This could have been theirs.

But instead it's Danny's.

Stiles lifts his thumb, and it's then he sees the text at the bottom. "I've moved on to a better model. Hope you approve. XX"

Stiles throws his phone at the wall.

A second later he rushes over to pick it up.

Turns out to be really lucky his dad made him get the dorky case.

Stiles thumbs his phone back on and then he's calling Scott.

There's no answer, of course, so after trying three times he moves on to Allison.

There's no answer there either, which is kind of unexpected. So after ten tries, he finally moves on to his last ditch effort.

The phone seems to take forever to dial out, giving him the time to wonder if this was really the best idea after all. Once it does start ringing, the other line picks up on the second ring. "Hello," says the voice Stiles both dreads and desperately needs.

"Jackson. So, how'd you like to help me out?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, hey, if you guys didn't notice, this fic now has added sex. Be prepared for that in the next part.
> 
> The whole story is written. Last part should be up later tonight.
> 
> Thanks everyone who's commented so far, and biggest thanks of all to river for a super-quick beta for 5000 words. You rock \o/

The plan will definitely succeed. At least, according to Jackson, the plan will definitely succeed. Privately, Stiles has his reservations. And most of those reservations have to do with what he's currently wearing.

"Are you sure it's supposed to be this low?" Stiles says, trying to tug the neck of his shirt a little higher.

"Yes," Jackson says, voice exasperated. "For the last time, the shirt is supposed to be that low, that tight, _and_ that see-through. That's the point of the shirt."

"I feel exposed," Stiles says, casting a furtive glance at his classmates. "I feel like someone's cabana boy or something."

"Like I said," Jackson says with a raised eyebrow, "that's the point of the shirt."

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. "How do women _do_ it?" Stiles says in a harsh whisper. "How can they stand going out with everything—on display?"

Jackson shrugs and looks at Stiles. "Who knows. Who cares. And Stiles, let's be realistic here. _Everything_ is not on display."

Stiles lets his arms uncross for a few brief moments. "Really? What do you call _this_ then?" Stiles asks, gesturing at his chest. At his chest which happens to house his nipples. His two very exposed nipples.

Jackson snorts and turns away. "Exposed would've been me getting you into those pants."

Stiles blanches. Those pants… Those pants were enough to fuel nightmares for the next year at least.

"It doesn't matter anyway," Jackson continues, walking away. "You'll never get him back this way."

" _What?_ " Stiles asks, angry. He's angry. He's totally angry. But underneath that anger, he's more afraid than anything. "What do you mean I'll never get him back this way?"

Jackson turns back to him. "I _mean_ it's one thing to wear something, it's another thing to _wear_ something. Take Lydia for example. Have you ever seen her look anything but confident in whatever shitty outfit she's wearing?"

Just then, Lydia walks into the hallway, wearing—

Stiles has to blink to believe it. Then he _still_ doesn't believe it, so he rubs his eyes. But finally, after coming out of that with the same image still firmly in his view, he can't help but believe that Lydia's actually wearing an entire outfit made of newspaper. Lydia moves and the _newspapers_ move and suddenly Stiles is seeing flesh. Stiles is seeing flesh in new and unexpected places.

He puts a hand over his eyes, because—well he went to the effort of dressing up for Derek. He's obviously going to do his best to do more than just look the part of an extremely interested boyfriend.

Jackson must take that as agreement because he starts talking again. "No. You don't. Of course you don't. And you know why? Because Lydia has something you never will, Stiles."

"Boobs?" Stiles guesses.

" _Nooo,_ " Jackson says, long and drawn out like Stiles is more idiotic than anyone Jackson's ever known, ever. " _Lydia_ has a little something known as dignity."

Stiles watches his classmates pointing at Lydia and whispering. He decides not to say anything. After all, dignity has to start somewhere.

*

It's funny. Stiles has never really considered himself a violent person. But right now, right at this exact moment, Stiles really could do some damage. _Danny_ is sitting next to him. Danny is sitting next to him, smirking, with not a care in the world. Stiles kind of wants to wipe that smirk right off Danny's face.

Stiles stares at Danny. Danny ignores Stiles. Stiles stares some more. Danny ignores some more. Then someone is interrupting their rhythm. Someone is interrupting their rhythm by pinching Stiles on the ass.

" _Hey!_ " Stiles says and jumps out of his seat. And then he raises his fists in a fighting stance, starts to turn around. This is not the day to mess with Stiles. This is the day that Stiles messes right back.

Only the person on the other end of Stiles' death glare ends up being Lydia. And, well, Stiles just doesn't have the heart to slap her back. After all, she's wearing newspaper. That's gotta be enough indignity to make anyone feel a little better about themselves.

" _Stiles,_ " she says, in a low hiss. And, yeah, she has his attention, due to the violence she has committed on his person. No need to keep it up.

Stiles raises his eyebrows to communicate that, and Lydia raises her eyebrows right back. Then she looks from Stiles to the place directly behind him. Stiles feels a slow, creeping dread slipping up his spine.

He turns around slowly, to draw out the suspense even more, but when he sees who it is, he can't help but sigh in relief. He thought—he expected it to be Derek. Derek looking all foreboding and breaking up with him and maybe calling him a bad kisser in front of the entire class. And running off with Danny to Aruba.

But it isn't Derek at all. Nope, it's just Coach Finstock glaring at him like he peed in Coach's best hat or something. (Not that Stiles ever did that. Really.)

"Bilinski! Is there a reason you're standing up in the middle of class?" Coach says, glaring at Stiles.

"No. Ah, no," Stiles says, running a hand over the back of his head.

"Then why don't you _sit down,_ " Coach Finstock says, turning and walking to the front of the room.

Stiles scrambles back into his chair, shooting a look of irritation at Lydia.

Coach turns and looks at the room. "Ah, now that we're finally as behaved as grade-schoolers, let's try and actually _learn_ something. Bilinski! If you wouldn't mind answering the question."

Stiles' mouth opens, struggling through possible responses, but in the end he just closes it again.

"I guess not," Coach says then he whirls on—Danny. Stiles doesn't even try to hold back his snicker.

"So," Coach continues, not breaking, "since little Bilinski here can't answer my question, maybe his _boyfriend_ can."

Stiles eyes expand in shock and—shock. And then he's saying, "Ew, ew, ew!"

And Danny's saying, "As if I'd ever lower myself to dating a cretin like Stiles."

And Stiles is saying, "Gross. So gross."

And Danny's saying, "I have a little more taste than that."

And then, "I'd rather shoot myself," they're both saying _at the same time._

Stiles drops his head at the indignity, the sheer and utter _wrongness_ of agreeing with Danny on anything.

From the front of the room he hears Coach saying, " _Right._ I don't know about the rest of you, but this bring to mind a little saying about protesting too much."

Stiles groans into his arms.

*

The plan goes good. The plan goes great. The plan goes off without a hitch—

Until it doesn't.

Part one of the plan had been the whole… _t-shirt_ thing. And, while Stiles wasn't exactly a huge fan of it, he also wasn't exactly against it. Yes, it felt wrong to feel every passing breeze on his nipples all day long, but in a way it was kind of freeing.

Part two of the plan had been a little more difficult—go to Derek's house. It wasn't like Derek was just going to welcome them with open arms, so Stiles suggested dragging Scott and Allison and Lydia along. With all of them present, Derek had to let them in. Right?

Actually Stiles _had_ been right. Derek had taken one look out the front door, and then he'd propped it open, looking at Stiles with something indescribable in his eyes.

And it was then, right then, that the plan had gone to hell. Because, unbeknownst to Stiles, there had been a third part to the plan. A part where Jackson had grabbed Stiles by his low-cut, tight, see-through shirt and pulled Stiles into a very wet, very messy, open-mouthed kiss. With tongue. And teeth.

Which is why Stiles is now watching from the side of the porch while Derek beats the living stuffing out of Jackson.

Lydia tugs on his arm, and oh, he must have been attempting to walk over to them. Stiles leans back against the wall again, body a barely controlled coil of energy.

"You shouldn't have cheated on your boyfriend with Jackson," Lydia says, straightening the newspaper across her left shoulder. "Now he'll never be able to father children."

"And you care about this, why?" Stiles asks, wincing as he hears a particularly loud crash from the other side of the porch.

Lydia just smiles serenely at him. It's creepy.

The wind suddenly kicks up and Stiles suddenly sees what he would've given his left eyeball to see a year ago. Also, he finds out Lydia goes commando.

"Uh. Lydia," Stiles says, searching for words. "Why are you wearing… actually, no, _what_ are you wearing?"

"Oh. You like it?" Lydia says, voice going slightly manic. She smoothes the 'skirt' down and smiles a creepy, hyper smile at him. "It's from Jean. He's the hottest new designer in town. It's totally trendy, right?"

Stiles snorts. "I wouldn't dress a bag lady in that."

Lydia… cracks. Her face goes from hyper and hopeful to completely and totally crushed in less than ten seconds. "Who is good enough for you, Stiles? _Who?_ " She wipes her nose with the back of one hand, smears mascara across her face with the other.

"Um…" Stiles says, lost.

"I tried _everyone_. _Everyone_. It didn't matter how new they were, how popular they were, how much I liked them… you made fun of each and every single one."

"Uh, Lydia," Stiles says, edging back a little. Being around crying girls always made him feel all helpless.

"And now I find the _one_ designer in town who's new. The one designer who's original. And you mock him too." At the last she breaks into full, body-heaving sobs.

Stiles looks across the porch to where Derek's _still_ beating on Jackson, then he looks back at Lydia. He sincerely considers walking to the other side of the porch.

In the end, he stays where he is. Lydia just keeps sobbing, though, and it doesn't seem to be getting any better. So eventually he puts a hand out and pats her on the back.

She hiccups.

Stiles giggles a little, he can't help it, then he's pulling Lydia into an awkward, wet, snotty hug.

Her sobs start to taper off and eventually she calms down enough to actually stop altogether. Stiles lets her go, gently, then he's rubbing the makeup off the corner of her eye. "You know I don't know anything about fashion at all, right?"

Lydia's eyes go wide. Then they narrow and she's smacking him on the arm. "You asshole," she says.

From the other side of the porch, Jackson whimpers.

From inside the house, Stiles hears Allison scream, "Oh my god, Scott, yes, _yes_ , _YES!_ "

Stiles wonders, for a second, when, exactly, this became his life.

*

Eventually, (after Allison screams about half-a-dozen more times and Lydia's turned Stiles' whole body into a great big bruise) Scott comes downstairs and seems to realize that Derek isn't exactly in control of himself. "Whoa," he says, tugging Derek back until they're hitting the side of the house, "what's gotten into you, man?"

"Yeah, Derek," Stiles says, fending off another slap from Lydia, "what, precisely, _has_ gotten into you. It's fine if _you_ make out with other guys, but you have some kind of problem if I do?" Then he turns to Jackson and says, "Speaking of that… really? _That_ was your plan? Are you seriously brain-damaged or something?"

Jackson wipes blood from his nose with the back of his hand, finally shifting back into human form. "I was pissed, okay? I wasn't exactly thinking straight."

"Oh, and what did you have to be pissed about?" Stiles asks, voice high with irritation.

Jackson turns and glares at Derek for a second, then he's looking away.

"No," Stiles says. "No. No way. You have _got_ to be kidding me. You're interested in Derek?"

Jackson looks at him in a mixture of irritation and confusion. " _No_ ," he says, drawn out, like he's talking to somebody who's a few bolts short of a toolbox.

Stiles arches his eyebrow. He opens his mouth to say something, and then Derek's talking, voice gravel in his throat. "He wants you. He was jealous of me."

Jackson arches his eyebrow and looks even more irritated. "As if. Hale, if you want this—this waste of space as a bed heater, it's your choice. Believe me when I say I don't want him. I've _never_ wanted him."

Derek's forehead wrinkles. "Then, who…"

Stiles thinks for a minute. If it's not Derek and it's not Stiles then it has to be… "Danny."

Derek shifts back into human. "Really, kid? You're into _that_ little twerp?"

Jackson flushes an angry red. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Derek smirks. "You're lying." He turns his smirk on Stiles. "Christ. Look at him, blushing like he's actually embarrassed."

Stiles smirks back. "That has to be a first," he says. Then he remembers. He remembers _why_ Jackson was pissed at Derek. Why _Stiles_ is pissed at Derek. "Hey," he says to Derek, rounding on him, "don't think I forgot about _your_ part in this whole mess. You made out with him."

Derek stares at Stiles, then stares at Jackson, then stares at Stiles again. "No. _You_ made out with him," he says, gesturing at Jackson.

"Oh, don't play obtuse with me," Stiles says, getting frustrated. "You made out with _Danny_. I have photographic evidence, on my phone."

It's Derek's turn to blush, neck and ears going red. "That—ah—wasn't what it looked like," he says, looking down at the ground.

" _Really,_ " Jackson says, voice going all superior. "You mean you _didn't_ make out with Danny last night?"

Derek doesn't say anything for a minute, then he's stumbling over his words. "Not—not the—"

"Exactly what I thought," Jackson says, sharing a look of triumph with Stiles. "He totally did."

The triumph is short-lived, though. Because if Derek made out with Danny that means…

That means, Derek's really _not_ interested in Stiles after all.

"Fine," Derek says, after a few seconds have passed. "All right. Fine. I made out with him. I admit it. You happy now?"

And no, that's about the farthest from what Stiles is feeling, thank you very much.

Derek continues talking, hardly pausing for a breath. "I made out with Danny for about five seconds. And then I pushed him away. It wouldn't have even gotten that far if my reflexes hadn't been extremely impaired. He got me drunk, the little jackass."

"Oh," Stiles says. He looks at Derek and there's something there. There's something that makes his heart feel like it's beating too fast in his chest. Something that makes his palms sweat and his mouth water and blood flow in a very definite direction.

Then Derek's forehead is wrinkling again and he's saying, "That still doesn't account for Lydia. She was all over you, Stiles."

"We're friends, Derek," Stiles says. "Friends touch each other. Like, all the time."

Derek's eyes close and then open back up and that something that had been there before is suddenly doubled in intensity. Stiles swallows hard, knowing something is about to happen, something monumental.

"Where is Lydia, anyway," Jackson says from the floor of the porch.

Then Lydia's voice is answering. "Allison! God, Allison. There! Right there! Harder. Harder! _Scott!_ "

"I'm going to make them buy me a new bed," Derek says, looking up at his window.

*

And then Stiles lost his virginity. Spectacularly. There were fireworks and explosions and other shiny loud things.

At least, that's what Stiles thought would happen next. What actually happened…

What _actually_ happened was Derek turned tail (figuratively—he wasn't wolfed out or anything) and _ran away_. And, okay, yes, Derek didn't so much run away as he went inside his house and kicked Allison and Lydia and Scott out. But it wasn't like he invited Stiles in. At all.

"What'd I do wrong?" Stiles asks, voice all whiny and obnoxious. He can't help it, though. He is supposed to be having sex. He is supposed to be having sex right now.

"Well," Allison says, passing over the Triple Chocolate Fudge ice cream and a spoon, "generally speaking men are pretty stupid."

Stiles shoves the spoon into the carton and gouges out a giant glob of chocolaty goodness. It's too big to fit in his mouth, winds up all over the side of his face.

"Ugh," Lydia says from where she's lying propped up on the bed. "This doesn't make any sense, Allison. How can you read this?" She has Allison's creepy book of family murders and mayhem on her lap. She turns it sideways, then upside down, then puts it back upright. " _Still_ doesn't make any sense."

"What do you mean, Lydia?" Allison says, sitting down next to her. "I love this book."

"We know," Stiles says, wincing, around a mouthful of chocolate.

"What he said," Lydia says. "But seriously, Allison, how can you read this? All the words are messed up, like that stupid old man we had to study last year."

"Shakespeare?" Stiles says.

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Like I care what his name is. Listen to this: 'twyxt the eve of the fullness of the moon and the eve of the twenty-fifth year of the birth of the leitwolf, he shall burn with the yearning. On that eve, he shall take to himself his mate and he shall find release in their body until he is sated'." Lydia throws the book on the bed and crosses her arms across her chest. "Well? Really, Allison. I'm amazed you could even get through a page of that thing without setting it on fire."

"Mate?" Stiles says dropping his spoon. It lands on his pants with a wet clunk.

Stiles and Allison stare at each other for a minute, then she's reaching for the book, flipping it open, practically tearing pages in her urge to find—

"It's here," she says, with a shocked giggle. "Oh my god. She's right. Listen to this: 'And the two shall become one. They shall bind themselves unto each other until their final breath, and even after. Their souls shall combine, that they know each other in the life beyond'." She lets the book fall closed, eyes wide. "Stiles," she says, voice trembling. "I think you and Derek…"

"We're getting wolf-married," Stiles says, mouth hanging open in shock.

They sit like that for a few minutes, staring helplessly at each other. Then Lydia is saying, "You're finished with that, right?" and grabbing the ice cream from Stiles' limp fingers.

He doesn't even care. "Werewolf married. I'm gonna be somebody's husband. Or, wait, there's two dudes. We can't both be the husband. Does that mean I'm the wife?" Stiles stops waiting for somebody (aka, Allison) to come up with another option. After a few minutes, he guesses she must still be too much in shock to answer. Suddenly, it hits him. He answers himself, "Spouse. I'm gonna be somebody's spouse. _Definitely_ not wife."

"Mmmm," Lydia moans in agreement. Or possibly orgasm. That chocolate ice cream is definitely orgasmic in nature.

*


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Explicit sex, discussion of punishments, discussion of knotting, knot-o-phobia (what? It's totally a word. Totally... Fine, fear/disgust of knotting)
> 
> Oh, also, top!Stiles.

Stiles pounds on Derek's door. Then he pounds harder. "Derek Hale if you don't open this door in the next minute, I'm gonna tell my dad you tried something. _After_ I said no."

The door flies open.

Derek's standing there in a loose pair of pants and no shirt. He's also sweating. Profusely. He looks kind of like one of those commercials for Reebok, all tight, glistening perfection. "Stiles," he says. His voice sounds grim. "I need you to leave. Now."

"Oh my god. Is it tonight? Is your birthday tonight?" Stiles says, voice going gaspy.

Derek doesn't say anything, just goes all stiff. And that's just like Derek. Never saying anything. Never _telling_ Stiles anything. Not even the really important stuff like—"We're going to be _married?_ "

Derek winces. "We aren't getting married, Stiles."

"We're gonna get werewolf-hitched and you're gonna _lie_ to me about it?" Stiles says, incredulous.

Derek scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. "It's not married. It's mated. And we're not doing it."

"Uh, yeah, we are," Stiles says. "Look at you dude. You're, like, dying right now, aren't you? You totally want to find release in me. Totally."

"No," Derek says, making to shut the door in Stiles' face.

"No?" Stiles says, shoving a foot in the crack. "No? You're just gonna say no and leave it at that? Really? 'Cause, just so you know, that shit ain't on."

Derek looks away, over Stiles' shoulder. "It's not fair."

Stiles pats Derek on the back. His hand comes away wet. "I know, I know. 'Woe is me, for I am Derek Hale, and I am forced by my body to mate to an obnoxious kid for the rest of my life.' But seriously, Derek, get over it. Move on. You don't see me freaking out about being married—"

"Mated," Derek interrupts.

"Fine, mated. You don't see me upset about being mated to _you_ for the rest of my life, do you?" Stiles spreads his arms.

Derek clenches his jaw. When he speaks, his voice comes out so low Stiles can barely hear it. "It isn't fair for you."

"Wait. What?" Stiles says.

"It isn't fair for you. It isn't fair that you get stuck with the same man—the same werewolf—for the rest of your life. You're eighteen. You should be free to do whatever, sleep with whoever you want. It wouldn't be fair to mate with you. It wouldn't be right." Derek turns away and walks into the house. Without his weight against it, the door swings wide, knocking into the wall with a thud.

"Bullshit," Stiles says.

Derek stops, spine straight and angry. "What did you say?"

"I said bullshit," Stiles says. "As in, that garbage you were just spewing out like words? That, is bullshit."

"Stiles," Derek says, voice like an open wound.

"There was a reason for this. You know it and I know it. There was a reason for this—us. There was a reason we met and spent time together even when we shouldn't and started tolerating each other. And then started a lot more than tolerating each other. There was a reason it happened, and a reason it happened now." He stops, thinks for a second. "Wait. No. That was the premise of 'Twilight.' I'm back to what I said before. Bullshit."

Derek turns around, finally. He looks wrecked, body trembling, on the brink of _something_. "I really don't think I can do this, Stiles. I really don't think I can be that man. The man you deserve."

"Well, Derek Hale, I know you pretty damn well and I can honestly tell you that you aren't the man I deserve. The man I deserve would probably be somebody with a beer-belly and a bald head. Or possibly Jackson. You are one hell of a lot better than any man I deserve."

They stand there, just looking at each other for a few minutes, then Stiles is saying, "Oh, fuck this," and moving to Derek in a trot. He reaches out, gets a good fistful of hair, and then he's tugging Derek to him. Where he belongs.

They kiss, all teeth and tongues, mouths saying what they can't with words. After a minute, or maybe an eternity, Derek pulls away.

Stiles groans, frustrated. "God. What is it now? Are you gonna tell me homosexuality is a sin and you'd be blackening my soul? Or, no, maybe you'll go for the fact that I'm still in high school. Wait, wait, I've got it. You're gonna say we can't do it tonight 'cause you have a headache."

Derek arches an eyebrow. "No. I was just going to ask you why you taste like chocolate."

*

They walk to the bedroom. Stiles always thought if he ever got to this point, they wouldn't be able to take their hands off one another. But at some point he realized, he's having sex. He's really, truly, honest to god, having sex tonight. With Derek Hale. Who has a small dick.

 

Stiles tries to open the door. His hand slips off the doorknob. _Looks like Derek's not the only one sweating._ Then Derek's behind him, big body blocking him in against the door. "We don't have to do this. Really, Stiles. You should go home. Tell your dad I did try something or—"

"No," Stiles says, trying to turn around. He can't. Their bodies are too close together. "No, Derek. We're doing this. I want to do this."

There's nothing for a second, nothing at all, and then Derek's flipping him around, looking at him, looking _into_ him. He grabs Stiles by the collar and tugs him into another kiss, all hard fast teeth and cruel tongue, turning gentle, soft by the end.

"What was that for?" Stiles asks, breathless.

"You didn't lie," Derek says, kissing him again. "You weren't lying. You want this. You really want this."

"I do," Stiles says. His body takes that moment to get on board with the proceedings. "Oh crap. I—Derek…"

"Shhh," Derek says, rubbing Stiles' sides, his arms, his belly. "Shh. It's fine. It's going to be fine."

He kisses Stiles again and again, kisses running into each other until they're just one big blur. Stiles is panting, body wound as tight as it's ever been, tighter.

Then suddenly Derek's mouth is gone. Stiles opens his eyes. He wonders for a second when he closed them, but then he's wondering about something else. He's wondering where the hell Derek is. He's about to move, about to get his legs back in working order and hunt Derek down and _force_ him to take Stiles virginity, at gunpoint, if need be, when he hears a sound from the floor.

And there Derek is, kneeling in front of Stiles and looking up at him with something like a smile on his face. "I'm going to open your jeans," he says, hands moving slowly forward. And then there are fingers—fingers that _don't_ belong to Stiles—nudging open his jeans.

Stiles sighs, nervousness mixing with relief from finally getting a little room to move.

"Now, I'm getting your jeans out of the way," Derek says. He doesn't though, just toys with Stiles' zipper until Stiles is ready to scream from frustration.

"Sometime today would be nice," Stiles says eventually, getting tired of whatever game Derek's trying to play.

And that must have been it. That must've been 'open sesame' in Derek's world, because suddenly Derek's hands are moving. They slide in, thumbs scraping his hips, and then they're pulling the denim down. When they get to Stiles' ankles, Stiles finally gets that there's a problem. "Uh, a little help here?" he says, lifting on boot off the ground.

Derek ignores him. Instead he moves his hands up Stiles' knees, over his thighs. He skips Stiles' underwear entirely, and then he's back to tracing a slow hand over Stiles' belly. "Underwear next," he says. And then Stiles realizes. He's totally standing in front of Derek with his pink underwear on. That is _so_ uncool.

"Stiles," Derek says. It's not hard, but it's a command.

"Yeah, fine, whatever," Stiles says, trying to bury his face in his arm.

Stiles hears a rustling, but he doesn't feel his underwear coming off. And then Derek is tugging his arm out of the way, running a thumb over Stiles' cheek. "Tell me what's wrong."

"It's just—" Stiles gestures at his underwear.

"It's just…?" Derek says, making a gesture himself. "Come on, kid. You have to tell me what's wrong or I can't do anything to fix it."

"I'm wearing pink underwear, Derek. You don't find that a little…" Stiles trails off, not coming up with any good word to describe what Derek would think of it.

Derek looks at Stiles' underwear, then he looks back at Stiles. "I didn't notice," Derek says.

"How could you not _notice?_ " Stiles says, voice incredulous.

"Believe me," Derek says, mouthing his way behind Stiles' ear, "I had other things on my mind."

He licks and sucks at the back of Stiles' neck. And then Stiles feels fingers in the waistband of his underwear. Derek slips them down, down, down to Stiles' ankles. And he moves with them, landing hot licks on random parts of Stiles' body. They cool instantly, make Stiles shiver.

Derek runs a thumb over one of Stiles' hipbones, presses against the jut of it. Stiles' whole body instantly lights up, and it's all he can do in that second to stop himself from coming.

Derek looks up at him, smile in his eyes. "I'm going to blow you," he says.

"Yes. Yes, yes, _good god_ yes," Stiles says.

Derek leans closer, closer, close enough that Stiles can feel Derek's breath on his cock. And then Derek's saying, "If you touch my hair, I will spank you until your ass really is a cherry. Get me Stiles?"

"Yes," Stiles says, eyes wide.

And then a hand is closing around his cock. A hand that doesn't belong to Stiles. Derek's hand.

Stiles' hands fly out, reaching for something. He grabs the doorknob with one hand, and ends up grabbing at his own hair with the other. It really doesn't work, so he winds up shoving it behind his head, trapping it against the door.

Derek leans forward. He licks up the front of Stiles' cock. One long lick from the base to the tip. It's ridiculous. It's obscene. It's the hottest thing Stiles has ever seen. "Oh my god," he says, eyes rolling back in his head.

And then his cock is surrounded by wet heat. It's— It's—

Stiles comes less than a second later.

Stiles thunks his head against his hand. It's not satisfying at all. Stiles wriggles his hand free, thunks his head against the door.

"Hey," Derek says, tugging Stiles' hands into his.

Against his will, Stiles looks down at him. "Uh—I'm sorry." He winces, knows his face must be fire-engine red.

Derek just shakes his head. "It was your first time," he says. "My first time, I didn't even make it out of my pants."

"Oh my god. Really?" Stiles says, shocked. Then he giggles. "Dude. I thought I was bad."

Derek glares up at him. "If you tell that to anyone, you'll get to experience what it's like to live without a spine."

Stiles' laughter dies.

Derek drops Stile's hands. He grabs Stiles by the hips and starts rubbing his thumbs into the hollows.

"That was really hot, Stiles," he says, voice going all growly. "Do you have any idea what you do to me? When I see you I just—"

He stops talking, mouthing over Stiles' belly instead. And then he's going lower, tonguing the place where Stiles' thigh and hip meets.

Stiles starts to go hard again. It's just— It's just so—too—

Derek moves lower, mouth sucking on Stiles' inner thigh then moving out. He pulls off, looks up at Stiles. "Stiles, is there a reason your leg tastes like chocolate?"

*

They move to the bedroom finally, Derek sort of carrying Stiles like a sack of potatoes. It's really unromantic. (It is kind of hot though.)

Derek goes to (finally) take Stiles pants off, only—"No. Wait, wait. God, I can't believe I almost forgot."

Stiles reaches into his pocket and pulls out—a condom. It's lucky he remembered. If he hadn't, his dad would've killed him. (It's creepy how well his dad can read him.)

He holds up the condom triumphantly. Only to be met with Derek taking it from him and putting it back in his pocket.

"No," Stiles says, pulling the condom back out. "No, no, no _way_ no." He pushes himself backwards until he's sitting, propped against the headboard. "My dad was pretty clear. If I don't use a condom, he will kill me, and if he doesn't, the syphilis will. Or Chlamydia. Or herpes. There were pictures—really, really disgusting pictures that I'd rather gouge my eyes out than ever see again."

"It won't work," Derek says, tugging the condom from him and stuffing it firmly back into Stiles' pocket.

"Oh my god," Stiles says. "Oh come on. It's _that_ small. It's so small you can't use a condom," Stiles says, wishing he had hair to pull.

Derek just stares at him for a second, then he tilts his head. "Why do you keep saying that I have a small dick?"

"Um," Stiles says. "Well, there was Jackson. And Allison's dad. And Jackson again. Pretty much everyone says you have a small dick."

Derek punches the pillow behind Stiles' back. Then he's getting up, toeing on his shoes. "I will kill him. I will sink my teeth into his neck and let his blood flow free."

"Well _that's_ a disturbing, and might I add disgusting, bit of imagery right there," Stiles says, kicking his legs off the side of the bed. "But do you really think now is the time?" Stiles tries his most seductive smile. Lydia once told him it made him look like he was special. (She also clarified exactly which type of special she meant. Ah, Lydia. Good times.)

For some reason, though, it makes Derek stop in his tracks. "Stiles," he says, kicking his shoes off. "Christ, kid. Christ. You don't even know the things you do to me." He grabs Stiles' feet, tug-tug-tugs until Stiles' shoes come off. Stiles pants and underwear follow. And then Derek's pretty much ripping Stiles' shirt off.

"Hey," Stiles says. "I _liked_ that shirt."

"I didn't," Derek says with a feral grin. His eyes are going red, wolf coming online.

Derek starts taking his own clothes off. While he's distracted, Stiles reaches over the side of the bed and into his pocket. "I really meant it, Derek. I'm not having sex without a condom."

"Werewolves can't carry STDs," Derek says, "and as far as I can tell, you're not a girl. No need to worry about getting pregnant. And like I said before, it won't work."

"How is it possible that werewolves don't carry STDs?" Stiles says, finally finding the condom. "That logic is not. Logical." Stiles takes a closer look at the condom. "You know, I think we could make this work. Do you have a blow-dryer?" After all, it should work. Latex should shrink when heated, so… He turns to Derek to get his answer, and sees—"Oh my god what _is_ that?"

Derek is standing there, naked as the day he was born, with his cock jutting out in front of him. His very normal (okay, large), very hard cock, that just happens to have an extra something around the base. Stiles stares at Derek's cock. Derek's cock stares back. "Seriously, Derek. What the hell _is_ that?"

Derek puts a hand on his cock, touches the place that's all extra loose skin. "It's my knot," he says.

"And what, precisely, is a knot?" Stiles asks, staring at Derek's hand now.

"It's to make sure a female is bred," Derek says. "It swells up when you come and keeps the come inside your partner."

"It swells up?" Stiles says, eyes wide with shock and revulsion. "Why, god why?"

"Why are you freaking out about this?" Derek asks, voice tense. "You know about this. Argent told you. I heard him telling you."

"And that is not, in any way, creepy," Stiles says. "Dude, you aren't putting that thing in me."

"It only hurts at first," Derek says, tracing his cock all the while. "And it only stays swollen for half-an-hour. Maybe an hour."

" _An hour?_ " Stiles says, backing away. "No way. No _way_ , no way, no way." He picks up his pants, his underwear, the shirt is a lost cause so he leaves it.

"What are you doing?" Derek says.

"Leaving. I am leaving you and your creepy dick to your own devices."

Stiles is reaching for his shoes, when suddenly Derek's hand is right in front of him. It's holding a condom. "We could try it the other way," he says.

Stiles looks up at him because there is _no way_ that that meant what it sounded like. But Derek is grimacing, avoiding eye contact, looking as uncomfortable as Stiles has ever seen him look. "Really?" Stiles asks.

"Just this once," Derek says.

Stiles lets his clothes drop.

*

There is lube everywhere, up Stiles' arm to practically his armpit, on the sheets, the pillow, there's even a little on the ceiling. But mostly, it's in Derek.

Derek is squirming on the bed, moaning like a whore, like something out of the dirtiest porn around. Stiles knows what that means. He knows it's time for something else. Something more. Something other than just fingers. But he's afraid.

He's afraid he's gonna go off like a fourteen-year-old again.

He tries thinking about Mr. Harris naked. It doesn't cool him off at all. In fact, it has pretty much the opposite effect. Now he's picturing himself and Derek and Mr. Harris. All together. In a big pile of sweaty limbs and thrusting bodies and come. Lots and lots of come.

He tries thinking about the tuna surprise from last Thursday, but that just makes him think about tuna in general. Which reminds him how Derek sometimes makes Stiles tuna sandwiches when Stiles forgets to bring supper. Derek says it's just because it's all he's willing to give Stiles, but Stiles knows it's actually because, deep down, Derek knows just how much Stiles _likes_ tuna sandwiches. Which, of course, makes Stiles think about how, after they're done, Derek's probably going to make them tuna sandwiches again. And they'll eat them in bed. And afterward, there will be yet more sex.

He tries thinking about Mr. Argent's crossbow, but then he just pictures Derek holding the crossbow and that's just… yeah.

Finally, as a last-ditch effort, he thinks about his mom.

_And there we go._

Stiles grabs the lube one last time and rubs a good handful over his condom-covered dick.

"Stiles," Derek says, voice harsh, "if you don't fuck me right now, I'm walking out, getting in my car, and driving to Danny's."

And, wow, look at that, that must've been Stiles' 'open sesame' because he's suddenly _shoving_ Derek into the mattress and just _humping_ himself against Derek's hole.

He gets the tip inside.

It slips out.

He gets the tip inside again.

It slips out again.

"Oh my god, I was right," Stiles says, lining himself up. He keeps his hand firmly on his dick this time. "It is like a slip'n'slide."

And with that, he's slipping in.

Derek groans into his arms.

Stiles stops less than an inch in, certain, _certain_ he's going to come. He gives his balls a good tug, thinks about his mom again, and throws in Scott's dad for good measure, and then he's finally moving.

If Stiles thought Derek sounded whorish before, that's nothing to what he sounds like now. He's moaning and writhing on Stiles' dick, body moving in a way Stiles never imagined.

And then Stiles shifts, moves his knees a little forward, and on the next thrust in he apparently hits pay dirt. "Yes!" Derek shouts, voice hoarse.

"You like that?" Stiles asks around his panting breaths.

"Oh god. Oh _crap!_ Yes!" Derek says, screwing himself back onto Stiles' dick.

 _Mom, mom, mom,_ Stiles thinks.

Stiles goes at it a little harder, a little faster. Derek's voice breaks down until he's mumbling incoherent syllables, nothing making sense at all.

But then again, Stiles is pretty close to incoherent himself.

It feels so _good_. So overwhelmingly, _ridiculously_ good.

Stiles hips thrust faster yet, body kicking up speed. "We're totally doing this all the time," his mouth says.

"Yes!" Derek's mouth says back.

"I'm gonna fuck you into the mattress," Stiles' mouth says.

"Christ, yes!" Derek's mouth says.

"And leave you dripping, leave it for everyone to see," Stiles says.

" _Stiles,_ " Derek says. His body goes taught, back arched into a harsh curve. For a second Stiles worries that he did something wrong, hurt Derek somehow. But then Derek falls into the mattress, body all loose and pliant and—

"You just came, didn't you?" Stiles says, picking his pace back up.

"Nnng," Derek says around a pillow.

"You're such a slut for it, such a slut for my cock. You're gonna want it all the time. Want me to just own you," Stiles says.

Derek doesn't say anything, but then he tilts his head, looks up at Stiles. And the look Derek gives him—

"You are," Stiles says, "oh my god you are."

And like that, Stiles is over the edge, cock pulsing out load after load into Derek's hole.

Stiles just lies there for a second, collapsed on Derek, but then he's tugging out, pulling off the condom and throwing it toward the trash. It's slightly short of the mark.

"You're cleaning that up," Derek says.

*

Stiles had been right. Derek totally made them tuna sandwiches and then they had sex again. Derek must've really liked the second time. They had _burgers_ before the third time. _With_ cheese.

And maybe having sex that many times wasn't the best idea (especially since he'd only gotten two hours of sleep, if that), but it was so worth it. Every last moment of that night would be with him the rest of his life. Especially the moments when Derek was riding Stiles' cock like a professional.

Stiles doesn't get a chance to confront Jackson until lunch, and as much as he'd like to kick Jackson's ass in front of the whole school, he really, really wouldn't. So he's planning on waiting until after school.

But somehow, Jackson is sitting completely by himself in a back corner of the lunch room. It's weird. And bizarre. And possibly wrong on some fundamental level.

"Jackson," Stiles says.

"Uh huh," Jackson says, distractedly.

"Jackson, are you even listening to me?" Stiles asks.

"Uh huh," Jackson says.

"You're a grade A asshole. You know that, right?" Stiles says.

"Uh huh," Jackson says. And that's just like Jackson, isn't it. Obviously busy with something else when Stiles took the time out of his day to yell at Jackson in person.

Stiles tries to figure out what has Jackson so distracted. It only takes a second to realize he's staring at the other end of the lunch room. Where Danny's sitting.

"You could ask him out, you know," Stiles says, looking at Danny. "That _is_ what normal people do. Not that I would ever expect anything normal from you."

Jackson must actually have heard him that time, because he's turning to Stiles, smiling his very most insincere smile at him. "What are you doing here? Did somebody invite you to this table? Because I, obviously, didn't."

Stiles just glares at him for a second, then he's pulling his fist back and ramming it into Jackson's gut. "That was for lying to me." He repeats the process, punch landing with a thunk. " _That_ was for the kiss."

Stiles walks away, leaving Jackson curled into the fetal position on his chair. Who would've figured the brass knuckles would actually be useful for something?

*

There are a dozen people at Danny's table when Stiles approaches it. Stiles ignores them and goes straight to Danny.

"He's into you, you know," Stiles says.

"He who?" Danny says. "If you're referring to that delectable man who you insist on calling Miguel, I am well aware of his affections."

Stiles thinks about the brass knuckles. Stiles thinks strongly about the brass knuckles. Sadly, Danny isn't a werewolf. Stiles would probably actually hurt him. And wind up in prison. And never have sex again. (Actually, he'd probably have a lot of sex. Just not with Derek.)

"No," he says finally. "I'm talking about someone who's not already taken."

"Taken doesn't mean anything until there's a ring involved. And even then, it doesn't mean very much."

Stiles bites his lip and thinks, _prison bitch, prison bitch, prison bitch,_ as hard as he can.

"I'm _talking_ about Jackson," Stiles says when he's no longer seeing red.

"If you hadn't noticed, Jackson's straight," Danny says. His voice is carefree, but his body is no longer in the easy slouch of a moment before.

"If you hadn't noticed, Jackson is a fucked up dude who has no idea who he is. At all," Stiles says.

"So you're telling me that Jackson is not only _gay_ but also interested in _me?_ " Danny asks, voice incredulous.

"That's exactly what I'm telling you," Stiles says. "And if you actually do something about it, you might end up with that better model you wanted so desperately."

Danny stares at Stiles. Then he's staring across the room at Jackson. Jackson, whose face is all red from the Physics text book he obviously just pulled up to hide his own staring. (Obvious because the book is upside down.)

"There is no way," Danny says, staring at Jackson. "Everyone knows Jackson's straight."

"Dude, think whatever you want," Stiles says. "I'm only saying something because I'm tired of listening to him whine."

Stiles walks away, wondering if they're serving tuna surprise again for lunch. Certainly smells like it. Behind him he hears Danny saying, "Jackson _is_ straight, right? Come on, guys. Be honest with me."

*

"Please say you'll wear it, please, please, please," Stiles says, holding out the ring. It's from a gumball machine, pink plastic stone shining out from the silver plastic band.

Derek just arches an eyebrow at him and chucks it into the bushes.

"No!" Stiles says. "No! You can't. Otherwise I'll end up in prison."

Derek stares at him like he's a crazy person. "How would me throwing a cheap piece of plastic away make you end up in prison."

"The logic is very clear. If you throw away the ring, you don't wear the ring. If you don't wear the ring, every Tom, Dick, and Harry, and possibly a couple Samantha's and Eva's, will hit on you. If someone hits on you, I will punch them with brass knuckles. If I punch people with brass knuckles, I will get sent to prison." Stiles takes a breath. "Oh, wait. I didn't mention the part about being the prison bitch."

"What even put this idea in your head?" Derek asks, voice kind of amused.

"Danny," Stiles says.

"You mean the boy who's currently sitting on my couch failing miserably at wooing Jackson?" Derek asks.

Stiles looks through the window. Jackson and Danny are sitting at opposite sides of the couch, not looking at each other, not even talking to each other. "Yeah," Stiles says.

"You do realize you should never take advice from either one of those two, right?" Derek says.

Stiles squints up at the sun. Because, yes, okay, Jackson had totally lied to Stiles. A bunch. But if it hadn't been for Jackson, Stiles would never have thought he had a chance with Derek.

"Also," Derek says. He reaches into his pocket and there's a clinking sound. He pulls out two steel bands, identical except for the sizes. "We might need to get them resized, but—"

"You," Stiles says, then cuts him off with a kiss. Then another. "God I love you," he says against Derek's neck. Then they're making out against the window.

"Hey," comes a muffled voice through the window. "Get a room already."

"Seriously," says another in response. "Way too much PDA going on here."

"Well, at least they're talking to each other now," Stiles says, smiling at Derek.

Derek is looking back at Stiles with shock in his eyes, then he's saying, "Me too. God help me, me too."

From upstairs they hear Scott's voice. "Allison! Oh, god Allison! Harder! Deeper! Lydia! God, Lydia."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone who's taken the time to comment along the way. This has been a blast to write. I hope you have as much fun reading as I did writing.


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